


Stars Become Them

by Skowronek



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different Powers, Angst, BAMF Remus Lupin, BAMF Sirius, Friendship With Issues, Godfather Sirius Black, Grimmauld Place, Harry Needs a Hug, Harry Potter-centric, Heavy Angst, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, Letters, Marauders Friendship, Mental Health Issues, POV Harry Potter, POV Multiple, POV Remus Lupin, POV Sirius Black, Post-Prisoner of Azkaban, Sirius Black's Trial, Sirius Black-centric, Sirius Needs a Hug, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Wandless Magic, Wizarding Law, Wizarding Traditions, Wizarding World, Wizengamot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-08-18 21:59:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 43,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8177603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skowronek/pseuds/Skowronek
Summary: In the summer of 1994, Sirius returns to Grimmauld Place. There is a godson to take care of, innocence to prove, and magic to explore. In other words, Sirius plans his way back into the Wizarding World, and Harry Potter gets to eat hearty meals.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Harry Potter.

It was dark and mouldy, but Sirius was used to both.

He took a deep breath – a mistake, he knew, the air being stale as it was, but he needed to brace himself anyway – and raising his hand palm up, muttered a throaty Lumos. He blinked, once, twice, as a misty bulb of light appeared above his hand. Wandless magic took a lot out of him, in his weakened state, but Sirius needed to see the condition of the house, and preferred to do this in his human form instead of sniffing in the years of neglect which  the building had suffered through. He took a few uncertain steps, the floor mercifully not creaking, before pausing in front of his mother’s portrait. Walburga was sleeping, snoring in an undignified way he was sure she’d never admitted to once she was alive. Sirius allowed one slow smirk to show on his face before he shrugged and entered the kitchen.

‘Kreacher’, he croaked, and waited, holding the light above his head. The old family elf apparated with a lot of noise, looked at Sirius, and shrieked.

‘Shut up, Kreacher’, Sirius ordered, suddenly tired. ‘You are allowed to communicate with me only, and you will not show yourself to anybody that me. And that includes chats with my dearest mother’s portrait, chich I’m sure you’ve been having’. The elf glared defiantly, but Sirius could see that he had to obey the order. Interesting, that. Family magic seemed to be working, which meant he was not so disowned after all. ‘Now, you will clean my room at once and then start working on the rest of the house. I want the kitchen to be resupplied in the morning. Go, now’. And Kreacher did.

For a few long seconds, Sirius let himself despair that he and Buckbeak had just parted their ways. Kreacher would be a dreadful companion to spend a night with in this bleak house. Grimmauld Place was a lot of things. Comforting it was not.

Sirius hurried to the Black family tapestry, the light bulb following behind him unsteadily. The material looked as if it had been chewed on by an especially stubborn Doxy, and Sirius snorted. This is what is left from the House of Black. A mad house elf, this tapestry full of holes, and a broken fugitive without a wand. Sirius took a closer look, tracing the names of his family members. All dead or disowned, he thought, looking at the hole between Bellatrix and Narcissa. Andromeda had the right to be there, but between what the two of them had thought about their family, he knew she had been better off without them. He moved to the place where his own face should be. Instead, he found a hole, as if burnt with a long cigarette, and his own name.  Walburga Black could blast his picture off but had no power to disown him. Sirius glared at the tapestry, faces of countless other Blacks glaring back. It was like he had thought.

‘So I can be the Lord now’, he laughed, turning his back on the family tree. ‘Imagine that, Mum!’.

In the hall, the portrait moved, followed by the woman’s screams.

‘…DISGRACING THE MOST NOBLE AND ANCIENT HOUSE, THE SHAME OF THIS FAMILY, HOW DARE YOU CROSS THE THRESHOLD OF…’

Sirius looked into the direction of the portait, disgusted, and then turned back on his heel, whistling to muffle the shrieks. He hoped that damned elf managed to clean his room. There were letters to write and plans to prepare.

***

Kreacher had cleaned. Sirius could almost smell the elf’s grudge in the air, but the old bedroom was spotless – or as much as it could be, given the circumstances. To be sure, he cast a wandless Scourgify on the floor, and then looked doubtfully at his bed linen – green, of course, his Slytherin’s family idea of acceptable – Transfigured it into dark red just to spite his dead mother, and then Accioed quills and ink. He remembered – a distant but still vivid memory, like everything he did to drive his family up the wall – that he did have a Muggle wired notebook somewhere here, a courtesy of Lily Evans. He summoned it, too.

Lily. No, Sirius shook his head, he was not going to think about Lily and James tonight. He had two living people to take care of, and the dead could wait.

_Moony,_

_The house was empty like I thought. Feel free to drop by – you can imagine I’m not going anywhere, and I’d welcome some sane company. The old servant went completely barmy._

_I have lots to tell you regarding my plans. I’m sure we can manage a lot of mischief._

_Expecting you soon,_

_Padfoot_

Sirius skimmed the letter. It was vague, the way he wanted it to be, but he knew Remus would find the password and reveal the hidden message detailing all his plans. He took the paper into both of his hands, focusing on the spell, and whispered a desperate Portus, filling the letter with his intention. It glowed faintly. Sirius took a deep breath – wandless magic was becoming more and more exhausting, but he needed to write one more letter before he could catch some sleep. He’d order Kreacher to deliver the post in the morning.

_Dear Harry,_

_I hope your aunt and uncle are treating you fine, pup. If not, you can tell them there’s a big black dog willing to chase them down the street. I remember Petunia hated animals. Do you need any prank ideas for her?_

_Writing to me is not secure, kiddo, but you can use this mirror. Just say my name clearly and wait, and I’ll answer when I can. We’ll think about better ways of communication later, I promise._

Sirius hesitated, thinking about another mirror, one that belonged to James. Maybe Remus had it now, Sirius didn’t know. He had stolen it from the house when he moved out, after a spectacular fight with his mother. The one he was going to send Harry had belonged to Regulus, and Sirius – or Kreacher - had to find it first.

_The mirror belonged to my brother. Your father had a similar one but I don’t know what happened to it. Don’t be shy to use it, Harry. There’s no reason for us both to be alone the whole summer. Just don’t mention to anybody that you have it._

_We’ll talk soon, I promise. Keep out of trouble, pup, at least for now!_

_Padfoot_

Sirius put the quill back, relaxing his fingers – after twelve years without writing, this felt like an exercise – and bellowed down for Kreacher, ordering him to find the mirror in Regulus’ bedroom. There was no way he was entering that place tonight.

Not bothering to wait for the elf, Sirius barked a sudden Nox, extinguishing the light, and turned into his Animagus form. It was easier to face the night as a dog.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there you go. I'm treating this fic as an exercise of sorts - I'm fighting a serious case of writer's block and thought it would be nice to focus on something different instead of idly waiting for it to pass. I've got a few chapters written out and a few more planned, so I hope I can finish it. The chapters will be short and I'm planning less than 20 of them, but who knows.  
> Hope you enjoyed it!


	2. Chapter 2

Sirius woke up with a howl. Cold was creeping under his paws, under his fur, under his skin, freezing his veins. He tensed, unsure of his whereabouts, unsure whether Dementors had already passed by his cell or whether they were just approaching. He took a sniff, warily, as if afraid to smell poison. Dementors reeked of sickness – the way they relished in human fear was still chilling Sirius to his bones, even months after his escape. He sniffed again, relaxing slowly, one muscle at a time. His eyesight adjusted to the dark, and Sirius could spot the marks his claws left on the wooden floor.

Wooden, not stone. Sirius gave the floor a scratch to be sure. He was at Grimmauld Place and this was his old room. No Dementors haunted this place but Sirius knew there were different kinds of monsters.

He’d never wanted to return here, not even in Azkaban, when he had sent his mind back to his old world, willing to be anywhere, anywhere but in that cold, empty place which fractured minds and broke souls. He still could feel it in his bones, the chill that never really left, that was a part of him now no matter how many warming spells Sirius would cast and how many fires he’d build. Sirius barked – not really a laughter; his family had spent hopeless years willing their darkness into him, and only Azkaban succeeded in that, and in other ways than the Blacks would have hoped.

Hope was an empty word for Sirius then. It was not hope that kept him alive. It was revenge. It’d made his mind all stormy, a whirl of ideas echoing with the promise of blood. Sirius howled with it. He’d listened.

By the time he reached Hogwarts, it had dimmed to a weak whisper, always in the distance, but Sirius was eager to listen to it. Sometimes it still screamed to him, invited him, seduced him, when Sirius knew that Pettigrew was so close, so close to Sirius and too close to Harry, and Sirius had to get him before the rat got Harry, before the blood in Sirius’ mind clouded his eyes and his heart. Dementors were still nearby, and he could feel their presence pressing down on his soul. This time, though, he could escape – to the Forbidden Forest, or to the Shrieking Shack, whimpering in the old building that brought back a string of memories stronger than any of the hooded monsters.

And then, he saw Harry again – still the same scrawny kid but this time not the panicked boy in rugs running away from his relatives; Harry, who was flying on the Quidditch pitch, brilliant and confident the same way his father had been, diving to the ground faster than Sirius would ever dare, and pulling the broom up seconds before it would crash. Harry, laughing at something his captain was shouting to him. Harry, catching the snitch. Sirius’s mind cleared just enough for him to remember what – who – he had been fighting for. After that, the whispers in his mind were still there, trying to catch him unaware, to strike when he was the most vulnerable, but Sirius knew there were powers stronger than even the most persistent noise in his mind.

He was stronger, Sirius reassured himself, his mind shaky just like his limbs. He stretched, his spine cracking, and changed back into his human form. The house was silent, even more so without his enhanced canine hearing. His old bedroom looked better in the faint morning light, but Sirius had no such hopes for the rest of the house.

And he was right. Kreacher had not cleaned the corridors overnight, leaving a thick layer of dust. Sirius could now hear some muffled noise from one of the rooms, suggesting the elf’s presence there, but he didn’t check, going to the kitchen instead.

Grudgingly, he had to give the elf some credit – he’d done a better job at bringing the old place back to life than Sirius’s wandless spells would ever do, and the cupboard was fully stocked. Sirius did a double take – and yes, he was right, Kreacher had filled it with all the products Sirius hated.

***

There was a letter on the bed.

Harry studied the Muggle paper, careful not to touch it. It could be Dudley’s prank, he mused, but then again Dudley was not smart enough to come up with something that included any activity more intellectual than beating the hell out of his victim. Harry doubted Aunt Petunia would waste any paper for him, and while Hermione may have written to him, she had no way of delivering any mail to Harry – she didn’t have her own owl and Hedwig had just flown to the Burrow. It was too soon for her return.

Harry was curious. He grabbed his wand just in case – it could be dangerous, after all, with Pettigrew still on the loose. Only then did he open the letter. The paper had frayed edges, as if it had been torn out of a wired notebook. There was a stain there, too, and the slightly yellowed page suggested it must have been quite old, though the ink seemed fresh enough, not faded at all, but slightly smeared, as if the writer had not held a quill for a long time. It resembled Harry’s own attempts from his early Hogwarts days, only with a more refined handwriting.  

And then there was a mirror, too. A tarnished silver one, with an elaborate frame that would make Aunt Petunia green with envy. Harry poked it with his wand, silently pleading it not to be cursed. Nothing. He shot it a cautious look and turned his attention to the letter instead, grinning when he saw the name scrawled at the bottom.

***

Harry had to wait until the evening to use the mirror. Aunt Petunia’d hollered at him from downstairs, making him go back to his chores. Armed with a pair of secateurs, Harry had to spend a few hours working in the garden, while Aunt Petunia ordered him around him with a scowl on her face and a weed killer in her hands. Considering her foul mood, Harry was relieved the equipment meant only to target vegetation and not almost fourteen year old nephews who had magic wands in their pockets.

Harry was happy they hadn’t locked his wand this time – apparently the threat of his rogue godfather arriving in the late of night was enough to let Harry keep his magical belongings, but not enough to give him some free time and enough food to sustain a teenage boy.

Dudley, of course, had as much leisure time as he liked. Harry would be lying if he said it didn’t bother him, but he knew better than to say anything.

'Water the flowers and get out of my sight', Aunt Petunia finally ordered. 'You can fix yourself a sandwich, just don’t make any mess in the kitchen'.

'Yes, Aunt Petunia', Harry said obediently. It must have been one of those days when she felt generous. She was sometimes almost indifferent to him, especially when Vernon was not around, and Harry could find it almost bearable.

“And don’t do anything _freaky_ ”, she added before she decided that it was better to ignore him and spy on the neighbours instead. Harry internally sighed. Mr Collins had bought a new car last week and Petunia still couldn’t get over the scandalous shade of purple he had chosen. She wouldn’t be caught _dead_ in that.

This time though, Harry couldn’t care less of what Aunt Petunia was doing. He rushed to water the flowers, made the sandwich as soon as possible, sneakily adding extra cheese, and ran to his room, eager to speak with Sirius. Even Uncle Vernon’s loud _Don’t run in the house, boy!_ , which had resonated loudly from the living room, couldn’t spoil his mood.

He scanned the letter again, figuring it was better to check if he missed any of Sirius’s instructions – but it all seemed simple enough.

And so Harry took hold of the mirror, looked into it and said clearly:

‘Sirius Black!’

He waited. He could hear Uncle Vernon shouting over the telly downstairs – something about the Labour Party leadership, which Harry made an effort to tune out – and Aunt Petunia exchanging greetings with one of the neighbours. Sirius had yet to appear in the mirror, and Harry started to worry maybe he’d done something wrong and it wouldn’t work.

‘Sirius Black!’, he tried again.

Maybe Sirius was not there, Harry thought. There was no reason for him to wait the whole day for Harry’s call, after all. He had a lot of things to do, like tracking Pettigrew down and catching up with Professor Lupin, and hiding from the Dementors.

‘Harry!’, he heard suddenly, and there it was: his godfather’s pale face in the mirror.

He looked better, Harry decided. At some point earlier Sirius must have brushed and cut his hair. His face had the same skeletal look, and there was something behind his eyes that Harry was not comfortable with, but Sirius was smiling – an real, wide smile which made him so much younger. Harry grinned back.

‘Hi’, he said.

It was suddenly awkward; Sirius looked at Harry with something akin to hesitation, and Harry suddenly realized he didn’t know this man at all, and Sirius didn’t know him. Other than the encounter at the Shrieking Shack, they hadn’t really had a chance to talk.

‘Hi, kiddo’, Sirius said. ‘It’s... it’s so good to finally talk to you’.

And he meant it, Harry knew. He did look happy to see Harry, and Harry suddenly felt overwhelmed. This strange man took his time to secure a way to talk to his godson – a boy he didn’t know, after all, and Sirius must have had so many things to do. Harry had no idea what it was like, living on the run, but he imagined it couldn’t be easy, especially after so many years in Azkaban. Harry remember the scary look in Hagrid’s eyes when the groundkeeper was released from the Wizarding prison, and Hagrid had only spent a few months there, not years.

Some of those thoughts must have shown on his face. Sirius frowned.

‘Are you okay, kiddo?’, he asked, his voice tinted with concern. ‘Are they treating you well?’

‘Yeah’, Harry answered. It wasn’t exactly true, but he figured Sirius had a lot to worry about anyway. ‘It’s fine. I’m just eating my supper now’, he explained, and to prove the point, he waved the sandwich in front of the mirror and took a bite. It did serve as an explanation but also as an excuse not to speak for a moment, and Harry mentally congratulated himself.

‘Good’, Sirius said. ‘Remember to tell me if there is anything wrong, Harry. I mean it. It doesn’t matter how big is the issue, you can tell me’.

Harry smiled. ‘Thanks, Sirius. I will’. He figured he would, too, if it was really serious – Dementors in Privet Drive or Uncle Vernon throwing him out on the streets. But Sirius didn’t have to know about his regular life during summer. He had enough on his plate.

Sirius looked appeased by Harry’s answer – or at least not suspicious, and Harry had spent enough time with Aunt Petunia to know what a suspicious look was like.

‘So how has your summer been, Harry?’, Sirius asked. He did look a bit awkward too, Harry suddenly decided, and it made him a bit more at ease.

‘Okay’, he shrugged. ‘I’ve been helping Aunt Petunia in the garden. Are you safe now, Sirius?’

Sirius grinned suddenly. His gray eyes seemed a bit brighter.

‘As safe as I can be’, he replied. For some reason he looked amused, but Harry decided he wasn’t making fun of him. ‘I’ve been rather busy. Moony and I, we’ve been putting some things in motion, you know’.

‘What things, Sirius?’, Harry asked.

Sirius winked. ‘I’ll tell you everything once I know a bit more, pup. But let me tell you, it’s gonna be the best prank ever’. He sobered, and then continued more intently. ‘Listen, Harry, answer me honestly. Do you still want to live with me?’

Harry could not stop the smile on his face when he nodded.


	3. Chapter 3

 

‘Remus’, Andrea Macmillan said with obvious wonder. ‘This is a surprise’.

‘Hello, Andrea’, Remus replied, smiling apologetically. He looked around Andrea’s spacious office, bright and pleasant but still professional. The old wooden furniture he could see must have belonged to the Macmillan family for a few generations, he mused, but it was softened with the lighter shade of the wallpaper. Andrea had some rather bland magical paintings hung on the wall, and while Remus didn’t think they suited her personality, they did compliment the furniture well, making the place more trustworthy than overwhelming.

‘Please sit’, Andrea asked, directing him to a chair. ‘Would you like anything to drink? I did not expect any visitors, but, Remus... it’s good to see you again. My Ernie had only good things to say about you’.

Remus felt some of his tension leaving him. ‘You too, Andrea. Ernie was a delight to teach. And some tea would be nice, thank you’. He let the words hang between them, a feeling of old camaraderie. Andrea had been a Ravenclaw, two years older than him, and while they had never been best friends, Remus had found her to be a good companion during long evenings spent in the library. Andrea was more mischievous than her fellow Claws, and Remus less prone to mischief than the rest of the Marauders, and so they struck up an unlikely friendship. They exchanged a few letters after Andrea’s graduation, but they became less and less frequent after the war. Remus had not seen her for nearly fifteen years. She wore her hair shorter now. Although her dark green robes made her solemn and serious, Andrea’s round face lit up to see him in a familiar smile, and her eyes hid a sharp spark that Remus had remembered well.

‘It’s not a social call, I’m afraid’, Remus confessed. He was interrupted by a quiet house elf bringing them cups of tea. Andrea dismissed the elf with a firm but kind _Thank you, Nettle_ , and only then Remus dared to continue. ‘My friend is in need of legal representation and it’s going to get messy rather soon’.

Andrea grinned.

‘Tell me more’.

 

***

Sirius directed his hand at the wall and released a white blast of magic, shaking with fury. The wall appeared unmoved. Sirius glared at it and aimed with another handful of energy.

At least the wards still stood strong, he thought wryly. He sat down on the floor, used to it so much more than to the cushioned chairs and elegant sofas, and stared at the ceiling. It used to be his favourite room in this dark, gloomy house; rarely frequented and hidden behind the library, it served as a study area for Black children too young to attend Hogwarts. It was, as far as rooms at Grimmauld Place went, relatively comforting. The ceiling had been decorated with a charmed view of the sky; Sirius rememberd Aunt Cassiopoeia drilling the names of all the stars into him. They’re relatives were named after some of them; Aunt Cassie had insisted that it was the stars that had been named after the first Blacks. Sirius didn’t care as long as he could stare at the ceiling, milky ways slowly charming themselves into his head, entrancing like no other feat of magic; and when he went to Hogwarts, Astronomy became his best subject. In Azkaban, he had wished for the stars in his cell, too, but there was only darkness, and then the Dementors snatched the memory of the room away from Sirius, and he knew the sky no more. Then he escaped – swimming, swimming in the cold water, Padfoot’s strong hind legs almost giving up, and Sirius was unaware whether it was magic that forced him to move, move, move, or whether it was pure survival instinct – and ended up on a pebbled shore, grass beneath his paws tickling like a first-year’s spell. He collapsed, exhausted, and when he looked up, he could see the stars again.

It would be, Sirius knew, a very good Patronus memory, if he could ever produce a Patronus again.

Sirius threw another handful of raw magic at the ceiling, this time more out of boredom than rage. The stars calmed him down, enough to think clearly but not enough not to feel the rage at the thought of Harry forced to stay with Lily’s abhorrent sister for so many years. Sirius should have been the one to raise Harry, to teach him to play Quidditch, to introduce him to wizarding customs, to pay for Harry’s first wand, to watch Harry grow, laugh, and eat chocolate frogs.

But Harry stayed there instead, and Sirius in Azkaban. Harry hadn’t known about magic until he received his Hogwarts letter; Merlin, he hadn’t known about _James and Lily_. Sirius was terrified when he heard about it – and even worse than the news was Harry’s casual resignation when he mentioned it. Harry _hadn’t expected_ Petunia to tell him anything about their family. He was so used to being excluded and dismissed – and who knows, maybe abused in other ways, too, Sirius was yet to find _that_ out – that he had long come to terms with just surviving in that house. And it went without saying that Harry deserved so much more.

Sirius suddenly fell over on his back, still looking at the charmed stars blinking slowly, and blinked back, laughing voicelessly. He was mad, he knew, planning what he did, but there was no other choice, and Sirius would not fail his godson again, not in a million years. So he laughed, and lay on the floor until the chill crept up his bones again and became unbearable, and brought to Sirius’s mind all the things Sirius was fighting to keep out. He then pushed himself up, springing back to the library. He had research to do until Remus got back.

***

‘What are you doing, Padfoot?’

Sirius turned, one arm protecting his head, the other ready to cast a spell. He adjusted his stance mindlessly, something he’s done so many times in the past, and relaxed only when his mind caught on that it was really Remus Lupin standing there, sickly pale in the candlelight, and not a Dementor, not a memory.

‘Moony’, he said carefully, dropping back onto his chair. He did realize he had to get used to living like a proper wizard again – and even more so, like a proper Pureblood. No more sleeping on the floor. All the schooling he’d received from his parents may finally come in handy now that he planned to fool all those hypocrites that he was sane, and he was like one of them.

Remus simply sat down and didn’t show that Sirius’ behaviour fazed him. There was a hint of concern in his amber eyes, but it had been there ever since the meeting in the Shrieking Shack a few weeks earlier. Sirius paid it no mind. His mind had enough thoughts to drown in.

‘So, how did it go?’, he asked instead, eagerly.

‘She’s agreed to represent you, Siri’, Remus said, visibly relieved. ‘And she’ll help you gain the custody of Harry, too, if needed’.

Sirius waved his hand dismissively. ‘I’m Harry’s magical guardian. The Wizengamot will have no say in this – the only concern they may have is my mental stability, and I’ll gladly undergo any treatment the Healers may think I need, even though I’d rather deal with this shit myself’. He saw Remus looked alarmed at that. ‘Don’t worry, Moony, I’ll be fine. I’m not going to do anything stupid if it can cost me Harry. But I think we may need Andrea’s help if we decide to go against Dumbledore’.

He watched Remus carefully. He wouldn’t Obliviate his friend if Remus reacted in a wrong way – no, Sirius was not as strong so as to cast a wandless memory spell, not yet – but he’d throw him out of Grimmauld Place in an instant, locking down the wards with no hesitation, but not before extracting a vow from Remus that he’d never breathe a word about it to anybody else.

But Remus just stared back at Sirius, not surprised, and there was something resolute in the way he squared his shoulders. They hadn’t talked about it before in detail, but Sirius realized that his friend might know more about Harry’s situation than him – he had got to observe both Harry and Dumbledore for a whole year.

‘He knows nothing about his family, Siri’, Remus replied evenly, but there is steel in his voice. ‘He never visited Lily and James’s graves. Dumbledore had warded me off Privet Drive and I could never even visit him, only watched him a few times on the streets. He’s bullied there, Siri, and we’re getting Harry back as soon as we can’.

Sirius felt something painful burning in his chest. Rage, he thought, that was what it was. Magic pulsed in his veins, wild and out of control, and he had to fight to keep it under wraps. Later, he promised himself, later he would act but now they had to think.

‘If Andrea doesn’t agree to help us with Dumbledore, we’ll find somebody else’.

 

***

Harry woke up to a crack. Reaching for his wand, he realized it was still dark; no other noise followed, other than Uncle Vernon’s snores, and Harry was alone in his bedroom; resisting the temptation to brighten the room with a Lumos, he felt blindly for the light, turning it on. On Harry’s wobbly chair, there was a bulky package wrapped in a gray paper. It must have been the sound of Apparition, Harry realized. Hoping it was not Dobby again, he tore down the wrapping paper only to reveal a letter lying on the top of neatly folded materials. Harry smiled; it was Sirius again.

_Dear Harry,_

_If you’re reading this, my house elf must have managed to follow orders and brought you a package of clothes. Remus got them for you from Madame Malkin and some Muggle shops so you can blend in, and we want you to wear them. No godson of mine will wear too big hand-me-downs. You deserve better, kiddo. There’s a Fitting Charm on the clothes so for a change you’ll have something in your own size. Remember to tell us if you need anything else._

_We also got you a set of formal robes with the Potter crest on them. You have the right to wear it, Harry, and to wear it proudly._

_Remus says hi and  to write him if you’d like._

_Take care, kiddo._

_Sirius_

Harry browsed through the package eagerly – it must have been hit with a bottomless spell because there were many more articles of clothing than he’d guess. Remus had chosen well, taking care of everything, including a few pairs of shoes and underwear. Harry smiled happily, putting everything away and turning the light off. He’d have to send Professor Lupin a thank-you letter.

***

In the morning, Harry showed up in the kitchen in his new shirt and trousers, and Aunt Petunia gave him a considering look.

‘And where did you get that from, boy?’, she barked.

‘My godfather’, Harry answered truthfully, eyeing the fridge she was opening. He was hardly allowed to eat what the Dursleys did, and today would be no different. Aunt Petunia’s pale eyes widened. ‘You may have heard of him’, Harry continued innocently. ‘The murderer on the run who was on the telly last year. His name is Sirius Black’. Harry snatched yoghurt from the fridge before Aunt Petunia recovered from that surprise, and added for good measure: ‘He left them here during the night’.

And he ran back upstairs accompanied by Petunia’s scream.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry watched Aunt Petunia through his window, listening to the distant click of her high heels echoing off the pavement. With her gone to the hairdresser, and Vernon watching football loudly, Harry wasn’t concerned that he’d be overheard. Dudley was off somewhere, probably bullying smaller kids again, and Harry knew that he could speak to Sirius freely.

They had bonded over the last few days, mostly speaking in the evenings, once Harry had completed his chores. He’d gladly stay up all night talking to his godfather, drinking in the stories about his parents, but Sirius was adamant about Harry sleeping for the whole night. Harry was a bit disappointed, although it did make him feel warmer that Sirius cared. He took to calling this his butterbeer feeling in his head.

‘Sirius Black!’, he shouted at the mirror. The surface glimmered, and then his godather’s face appeared, still gaunt and sallow, but undoubtedly happy.

‘Hey, kiddo’, said Sirius. ‘No trouble with the Dursleys?’

Harry shook his head. ‘Not today’, he replied cheerfully. ‘Aunt Petunia’s gone, Dudley as well, and Uncle Vernon’s left me alone’.

Sirius smiled at that. ‘Did they give you enough food?’, he asked bluntly. Harry nodded, and yet he must have hesitated a second too long, because Sirius frowned.

‘Hold on, Harry’, he said, and disappeared from the mirror.

The crack resounding moments later in his room made Harry jump and reach for his wand. Next to his desk, there stood an aged house elf, sporting a scowl. The elf snapped his crooked fingers, and a basket appeared on Harry’s desk. He looked daggers at Harry, and then reluctantly bowed, as if pained to do so. He seemed like a puppet manipulated by a puppetmaster, and Harry felt something akin to compassion. Before he said anything, the elf vanished with an accompanying snap. The sound brought Harry out of his reverie. He listened intently for a moment, but the noise from downstairs indicated that Uncle Vernon was still busy following the football game.

‘Check the basket, Harry’, Sirius called from the mirror. ‘This was my house elf, Kreacher. He’s forbidden from showing himself to anybody but me – and you, now. You can call him at any time and he will listen to you. I’ve told him to bring you food every day so you don’t have to depend on the Dursleys’.

There were sandwiches inside, Harry noticed, and a bottle of pumpkin juice, and porridge charmed to stay warm, as well as a few apples. Plates and cutlery were included as well; Sirius, or his house elf, must have thought of everything.

‘Eat, Harry’, Sirius said through the mirror. ‘We can talk in the meantime’.

Harry returned to the mirror with a sandwich in his hand.

‘Thanks, Sirius’, he said. ‘Really. I…’

Sirius chuckled.

‘Don’t menton it, kiddo’.

‘It’s delicious’, Harry said truthfully. ‘And thank your house elf too, okay?’.

‘If you want to’, Sirius answered, doubtfully, but didn’t comment further. His face adopted a pensive look, which made him haughtier than he really was; in that moment, Harry could believe that Sirius came from an old Pureblood family. There was something in the way he hold his chin that made him similar to Malfoy whenever he concentrated in Potions, all scorns and glowers. ‘You don’t follow the Færeld, do you, Harry?’

‘Fey-what?’, Harry asked, his mouth full.

Sirius gave him a fond look, but rolled his eyes nonetheless. Harry thought he looked a bit tense, or maybe just focused, and made a point of exaggerating his antics to cover that up.

‘The Færeld. I guess you don’t, then’, Sirius sighed. ‘It’s a kind of an old belief followed by many magical families, including mine. Your father followed, too, though not as diligently as some – there are some aspects of it which favour dark magic, and this is why it is shunned by a lot of magical community. I have never ventured into the dark field myself’, Sirius grimaced, ‘but many of my family members have. It’s a scary thing, Harry. Dark magic is powerful but addictive, and it feels like an easy way to follow. People lose themselves far too often and never realize it’.

Sirius seemed as if he was thinking about somebody he knew when he said that. Harry decided not to pry. Hermione would murder him if he did.

‘I never heard about it’, Harry said uncertainly. ‘Did mum follow it too?’

‘It’s not officially practiced at Hogwarts. You may notice students who do follow it if you know where to look’, Sirius said. ‘Your mum followed it, yes. To some extent. I think she had some doubts about whether it contradicted her Christian upbringing – she was Church of England, I think, and some darker wizards treat it almost like religion – but decided it did not, in the end. I never saw her following any dark rituals, of course, but she joined us in regular spells once we graduated from Hogwarts’.

‘I don’t think Ron follows it’, Harry said thoughtfully. ‘I’d notice. We spend so much time together’.

‘No’, Sirius confirmed. ‘The Weasleys are one of the old families who decided it was too dark for their tastes. Arthur Weasley’s mother, Cedrella, was a Black. She let herself go too far. The Weasleys stopped practicing the Færeld afterwards’.

Harry wondered if that was why Ron never mentioned it. ‘Is it dangerous, then? When you practice often?’

‘No’, Sirius denied firmly. ‘Not all of it. I use it daily before every meal, and you will see that many of your fellow students will do it too. Some people only do it on special occasions, like Christmas. It’s a very powerful kind of magic, though, and cannot be taken lightly’, Sirius warned. ‘The Færeld... it makes you enter a very personal relationship with magic, in a way. In Old English, the word meant a journey. It becomes a way of life, and once you enter it, it’s very hard to go back. Some consider it blasphemous’.

‘What would you do before a meal then?’, Harry asked, inquisitive.

Sirius smiled. ‘It’s simple. We set some food aside to offer it to magic – to feed it too magic, in a way. Do you know the old Muggle superstition that you should leave some food in your garden for the fairies? It’s like that. You place some of your food aside with an intention in mind, be it gratefulness or a promise. If you’re sincere, it will be accepted. It may disappear, or burn, or turn into a butterfly. Magic works in mysterious ways’.

‘How do you know it’s not house elves that clean it up?’, doubted Harry.

‘House elves do the same thing’, Sirius retorted. ‘It’s very strongly intention-based. You can’t cheat here in any way. It’s not only about food, Harry. Anything you can give freely can be turned into a ritual. The belief why it’s so dark... it has to do with the concept of sacrifice. You give a part of yourself to make your magic flourish – be it the food you want to it, or blood, or a the bride’s hair on her wedding day. And a willing sacrifice is the strongest magic of all, especially if you give up your life for somebody. Some people think it’s dark because it ends one’s life, after all. It doesn’t have to be – it’s the purpose that matters, and it has to be a willing act. Evil wizards, though... sometimes they try to cheat. They would murder for power. An unwilling sacrifice is not as strong, but they think it’s better than none. It still works, of course, but in twisted, distorted ways’.

‘Did Voldemort use it like that, Sirius?’

Harry saw his godfather nodding. ‘He did follow this way. He was a powerful wizard, Harry, maybe even more so than Dumbledore. At first, he practiced the Færeld properly, but then, as his power grew, so did his arrogance. He thought himself above that’.

‘And he started to cheat’, Harry filled in.

Sirius’ face looked grim in the mirror.

‘That he did. And we deal with the consequences till this day’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit short and lots of talking, but here you are. We'll getting close to some action.   
> And angst. Soon.   
> Færeld is a legit Old English word, the most easily translated as "journey", although that depends on the context. The idea will be explored later - I wanted this short chapter to serve as both an introduction to this concept and some Sirius-Harry bonding time.


	5. Chapter 5

 

Remus found Sirius on the kitchen floor, drawing runes on the stone floor with his fingers. Focused, he did not hear Remus enter.

Remus paused at the entrance, hesitating. Runes glowed faintly around Sirius, drawn with his messy but elegant hand; Remus knew his friend had learnt how to write them long before Remus himself tried his hand at Elder Futhark during his third year Ancient Runes. Sirius never took that class; he claimed to know everything he should, and the Blacks’ approach to this branch of magic rather differed from that taught by Hogwarts professors. Remus was aware his friend’s affinity to wandless magic had something to do with the Færeld, which he never dared to follow.

The kitchen looked less cluttered, Remus noticed, even with gold strings of magic circulating in the air, filling in the space with brisk waves of power. He crossed the threshold and helped himself to a green apple from the bowl on the table, watching absently as Sirius muttered runes aloud to himself. He was positively enraptured, pale fingers gliding just above the stone tiles.

Remus realized that Sirius was watching magic.

Not for the first time he wondered how the years in Azkaban affected his friend’s magical ability. Sirius had never responded well Remus’s wand; his reliance on wandless magic have obviously heightened his skill.  Did Sirius spend twelve years drawing runes in the air? Was it even possible to practice any kind of magic in the prison, when feeling so utterly hopeless and weak?

Remus hoped to never find out; at the same time, he had to know so he could assist Sirius. He had tried to allude to the subject, but Sirius got that wild look in his eyes whenever Azkaban was mentioned, and it was all entirely too dark for his comfort. Remus decided to give Sirius time.

Sirius was finishing his runes, it seemed. They began to glow brighter this time, gold against the gray of the stone, and finally disappeared in a sprinkle of mist moments after Sirius added the final Odal. Sirius kept staring at the spot in which the rune vanished for a long while, obviously satisfied.

‘Are you adding protections to the house?’, Remus asked. He missed the whole spell, but the final rune meant ‘heritage’ or ‘inheritance’. Sirius nodded, sliding into a chair.

‘It’s a spell my father renewed yearly’, he shared. ‘I figured it didn’t hurt to cast it. It strengthens the wards. And Harry will need all the protection he can get once he moves here. Blood magic won’t work here – we’re too distantly related. And Lily’s sacrifice... There’s nothing stronger than mother giving her life to protect her child, Remy. You know that. He won’t have it here’.

Remus vanished the core of his apple, thinking.

‘But the wards around Harry’s home, have they been renewed?’

Sirius shrugged – something he wouldn’t be caught doing before Azkaban, Remus thought. Rebellious or not, Blacks didn’t shrug.

‘I can’t say for certain’, he replied, a tint of worry in his voice. ‘If Dumbledore has any sense, he told Petunia at least to offer a few droplets of blood every year. But he doesn’t follow the Færeld, so…’

‘He’s shrewd, Siri. He may not follow it, but he did place Harry with Petunia. It was a calculated decision – his mother’s protection was the best Harry could get, and he got it’, Remus reasoned. ‘The question is whether Petunia bothers with the blood or not’.

Sirius looked stormy.

‘If she’s anything like Lily described, there’s no way in hell she’d do that. Merlin’, he whispered, ‘those wards may be almost nonexistent by now’.

***

Amelia Bones rarely got to enjoy free days, so she made a point of cherishing these moments with her family, putting aside some precious time. Her small country house in Sevenoaks, which she preferred over the Bones Manor, was usually rather empty, and as much as Amelia enjoyed her solitude – with the Ministry buzz constantly ringing in her ears like a permanent case of tinnitus – she considered it a rather welcome change. But whenever she managed to secure a few more days for herself, she would invite her family over. There were not many left of them, after all, and the Boneses had to stick together.

It was not unusual for Amelia to invite her little niece for a few days. Amelia had tried to involve herself in Susan’s life, especially during the early years; the girl’s mother, Agatha, had suffered through depressing periods of illness after the war. Amelia knew that it happened a lot, but their healers, though offered many remedies, did not seem to produce any that would actually work. The Bones’ family finally turned to a Muggle psychiatrist, a mother of Edwin’s Muggleborn friend, and Agatha’s condition slowly improved. Still, Amelia made sure to maintain a lot of contact with her niece.

Susan came from Hogwarts taller, with first acne pimples on her cheeks and a pet British Longhair cat in her arms (‘His name is Prince, Auntie, just look at him!’). The girl was bursting with excitement – she loved visiting her Aunt. Amelia was anxious to discuss several topics with the girl, including Sirius Black’s apparent visit at Hogwarts. When she heard about it, she considered hexing Dumbledore for allowing the man go past his security, and then hexing herself for not being able to catch him. Fudge, though he put a lot of pressure on her and painted himself as the one solely responsible for all the decisions regarding the fugitive, had been more of a hindrance than help, and not for the first time, Amelia wished for a more competent Minister who would simply let her do her job.

Amelia was just planning to enjoy some quiet time in the garden with her niece when the fireplace in the living room flared. Amelia hurried there, wand in hand, but if the caller managed to go past her security, she stayed alert more out of habit than real danger. She knew how to protect her house, thank you very much.

‘Amy?’, a female voice rang out. Amelia muttered a quick spell and saw that her wards had not been breached. All clear, then.

‘Hello, Andrea’, she greeted her old friend. The younger witch had gone to Hogwarts with Edgar, and they shared many classes. Amelia still thought fondly of their summer adventures back in their teenage years. ‘Something’s the matter? I didn’t expect you to call. Won’t you come through?’

‘Nothing serious’, Andrea replied, her voice coloured with mirth. ‘My Ernie is dying to spend some time with some of his friends, and we thought maybe he could meet up with Susan some time this week? I’d love to catch up with you too, Amy. We haven’t seen each other for a while’.

‘Other than the court room, you mean’, Amelia said. ‘Have you got plans for this afternoon, actually? You could join me for tea if you’re free’.

‘Splendid’, Andrea brightened. ‘I’ll just pop back to tell Ernie to get ready, and we’ll be here soon’.

And they were. Ernie looked as if he put his most serious face on when he greeted Amelia with a serious ‘Good afternoon, Madame Bones’, and stoically let Andrea Scourgify the dust of Floo travel ouf his clothes. Susan snatched him away with a cheerful ‘Hi, Mrs Macmillan, we’ll be in the garden’, and the women followed after them.

‘You’re looking well, Andrea’, Amelia offered. Her friend really did, radiant in her light summer robes. The shorter witch smiled.

‘Thanks, Amy. Morning sickness was so much worse with Ernie, you wouldn’t believe’, she answered lightly, but then sobered, taking a better look at Amelia. ‘You, on the other hand, are tired as hell. Is the DMLE _that_ much in uproar?’

Amelia sighed, leading them both to the terrace, as usual. They could see Susan and Ernie from there. Amelia’s elf had already anticipated her wishes and the tea was ready. They sat down in the shade of an old oak and only then did Amelia answer.

‘Hell is an understatement, Andy. Sirius Black breaking into Hogwarts? Parents have been sending Howlers both to the Ministry and Hogwarts, and Fudge only smiles but doesn’t do anything. I wanted to send patrols of Aurors to the school – they wouldn’t pose the danger that Dementors do and could be just as forceful. But there’s no reasoning with this man’.

They both shared a look which clearly said that Fudge deserved to be sacked immediately.

‘It’s a pity the Browns are not ancient enough to have a seat in the Wizengamot’, Andrea remarked, taking a sip of her tea. She idly charmed the steam to turn into fantastical spirals, floating around her and changing colours. ‘This thing could use a voice of reason. Caroline’s Brown article in the _Prophet_ seemed rather sensible’.

‘It did. But the Wizengamot could use some fresh blood, too’, Amelia agreed. The Bones family did hold a seat, something which Edwin despised regularly. Amelia would have enjoyed replacing her brother, but she was not the head of house, and with Edwin hale and healthy there was no reason for a proxy. The Browns were not and old enough family. Amelia thought little of the system which measured the wizard’s worth by his ancestry and not their personal achievements. Caroline Brown was one of the most honest people Amelia knew, and her outspoken advocacy for changes in the Wizarding world have stirred much controversy.

Andrea snorted suddenly.

‘But, Amy, there is fresh blood’, she laughed. ‘The Malfoys’.

Amelia glowered. Coming originally form France, the Malfoy family was relatively new in British Pureblood circles, enough not to hold a seat of their own. The Malfoys had to secure their position through bribery and flattery, as well as a few marriages into well-connected families. It was through Lucius Malfoy’s marriage to Narcissa Black that they now held the Black seat in the Wizengamot, in Sirius Black’s stead.

‘I’ve been looking into so many ways of getting one up over Lucius Malfoy’, Amelia said angrily, ‘and there’s nothing’.

‘He claimed to have been under Imperious during his Death Eater trial, didn’t he?’, Andrea recalled, helping herself to a scone.

‘He did. I looked into the transcript. He said it under Veritaserum, but the question was too vague. Malfoy was not asked to specify the duration of the Imperious. It was possible it only lasted a few moments. You can cheat under Veritaserum if you’re smart enough, and Lucius Malfoy certainly was’.

‘And now you can’t question him again because he got Fudge in his pocket’, Andrea summed up. ‘You have to give it to him, he’s shrewd’.

‘I think he was behind the Immunity Act’, Amelia shared. ‘No way to prove it, of course. It was the old Archimedes Flint who proposed it’.

Andrea sighed. They had discussed the issue before, and they both agreed that granting immunity to the members of Wizengamot was Fudge’ stupidest idea. Although sending Dementors to a school full of children came close second.

‘And now there’s no way to prove Lucius guilty’, Andrea mused. ‘And to think it could have gone to the Potters if little Harry was old enough.’

Amelia looked interested. ‘He’s still Black’s heir, isn’t he? Then again, it can’t mean anything now, with Black on the run. He hasn’t claimed the family ring or the Ministry would have been notified. At least the Potter’s seat is in Dumbledore’s hands.’

‘That’s better than being held by a Death Eater’, Andrea agreed, but the flat tone of her voice made Amelia pause. Before she could ask, her friend spoke again. ‘Lucius claimed Imperious, but what did Black say during his trial? I can’t possibly recall’.

Amelia narrowed her eyes.

‘You know’, she said, ‘neither can I’.

It bugged her, but Andrea just waved her wand around, mischievously turning the steam green and floating over to chase an unimpressed Ernie.

‘Oh, never mind then’, she said. ‘Let’s talk about something more pleasant. Have I told you that Anthony wanted to name the baby Eugene?’.

Amelia politely expressed her disbelief.


	6. Chapter 6

 

Occlumency sucked. Sirius was reminded of the times his father would break his walls, searching through his mind in a hunt for the most precious memories. His father was a cruel man by nature, though less so than Sirius’s mother; he would have never entered anybody’s mind without a good reason. Such a reason was, as justified by Orion Black, protecting his family by all means necessary, be it mind-torturing their enemies or forcing his own son to endure endless hours of humiliation. Sirius heard vague stories about Muggles throwing their children into water so they would learn to swim. When it came to Occlumency, Sirius had been subjected to the same method.

And so Occlumency sucked and Sirius hated every moment of it, but it also helped to keep his mind relatively intact and ensured his secrets would be safe. Harry would be safe, too, and Sirius had vowed to himself to deliver on the promise given to James and Lily. Harry deserved safety – and a godfather whose mind was not torn into shreds.  

Nevertheless, Occlumency did help to sort out through all the memories shrouded in the Dementor-induced hopelessness. It might be painstakingly slow and boring, but Sirius could feel the half-forgotten alacrity returning to him calmly.

The restoration of Grimmauld Place also played a part in brightening Sirius’s spirits. Kreacher, having been ordered to repaint the walls in less depressing colours, had completed the task reluctantly. Sirius then spent one sleepless night finding a very effective way of avoiding nightmares and occupied the dark hours before dawn getting rid of the equally dark artefacts cluttered around the house. Those which he had no ways of examining without his wand had been locked in the cellar behind a number of strong charms that Sirius and Remus cast in tandem.

The house was slowly becoming habitable, and yet Sirius found no way of removing his mother’s portrait from the wall. Remus had spent a tiring afternoon securing the area around her with a powerful and permanent Muffliato, successfully blocking her screams. Sirius promised himself to blast her off the wall once he’s got a wand and claimed his lordship – an act of the ultimate defiance, he thought.

In the meantime, he focused on supervising Kreacher; the elf had repainted the rooms while Sirius had sorted through most of the dark artefacts housed by his mother. He couldn’t do away with most of them without his wand, but what he could do was to secure them away in the basement, behind a sure wall of protective shields.

He prepared a room for Harry, too. Although initially Sirius planned to give Harry the Heir’s bedroom – a spacious place Sirius himself had occupied at one point – he then learnt Harry’s room at the Dursleys’ was the smallest and figured that Harry would be less overwhelmed in Regulus’s old bedroom – not as big as the Heir’s room, but also cosier. Sirius spent one morning preparing it himself, without Kreacher’s help – charming the walls sand beige and green, and putting his brother’s things in boxes. Mother had left the room as it was after Regulus’s death.

Sirius was definitely not thinking about it.

***

The Fool waved mockingly at Melanie Twycross, his gold and green robes simmering with magic. His face disappeared from view when the card turned in the air so Melanie swept her eyes over the rest of the cards. She was sitting at her desk, bored to death, and she would continue to do so for the next couple of hours. Nothing ever happened in the Serious Claims Against the Ministry Office, other than her tarot. The Fool turned back to wink at Melanie, who  stared at the card defiantly and waved her wand. The cards flew to her desk and folded themselves neatly on top of her copy of _The Daily Prophet._

For the third time this month, Melanie considered quitting her job. The pay was more than satisfactory, though, and her divination skills had never been better; and if she could be honest with herself, Melanie felt a certain nagging in the back of her mind, urging her to stay. And so she would.

She relaxed in her chair, internally hoping the time until her lunch break would roll onward quickly. There was nothing to do there, and even her cards could only be entertaining for some hours, not months. It had been Melanie’s dream to work in the Ministry straight after her graduation (the Hufflepuff class of ’87), so she had jumped at the chance to join the Improper Use of Magic Office as a secretary; her promotion to the Claims the previous year meant a much better salary and the blissful lack of Mafalda Hopkirk’s constant chattering. Initially, Melanie had been elated, but not anymore.

Over the course of ten months, the Office had received four letters: one from a grumpy potioneer complaining about the insufficient regulations of cauldron bottoms, two separate complaints from some witch from Worcestershire demanding the Office had to influence Fudge so he’d improve his abominable fashion sense, and one to Melanie from her mother, sending her photographs of her cats. Melanie then decorated her office with the pictures, content to watch the cats’ antics while she was taking a break from her tarot, but that was it: the whole activity of the Office in almost a year. As much as Melanie enjoyed the pay, she was more than ware her position was quite useless and that was not likely to change any soon.

Or was it? The Fool blew her a kiss and Melanie frowned. She covered the card with her unread newspaper, and then placed a coffee mug on it for good measure. She shook her head, intent on getting read of the uncomfortable feeling, and reached for a quill. Maybe if she met her Uncle Wilkie for lunch, the day wouldn’t be completely wasted. Just as she was going to sign her note, she heard insistent tapping. Melanie put the quill down and stared at the window with astonishment. She got an owl.

The owl was gone before Melanie got to untying the letter from. The seal looked official and Melanie broke it eagerly, all giddy at the thought of _something_ finally happening after ten goddamn months.

Ten minutes later she ran out of her office, letter in hand, oblivious to the Fool laughing heartily at her from under the newspaper.

***

The letter was filled with warmth and concern hidden between the familiar neat handwriting, just like all previous letters from Hermione which Harry had received. It made Harry smile to read about her delight at exploring Italy with her parents, and her disapproval of Ron’s staunch refusal to complete their summer homework before the end of July. Hermione seemed to think that Harry could influence Ron, but since he shared his friend’s attitude, it was unlikely. Privately, Harry wondered whether Hermione would ever give up. He had started his summer essays, but only because there was nothing else to do at Privet Drive between his chores and talking with Sirius; Harry thought about the Burrow with longing and decided that if he were in Ron’s shoes, he’d much prefer playing Quidditch in the yard than read about history of magic. Harry decided to dutifully report that he had already began writing – something which he was sure Ron was going to kill him for once Hermione had reprimanded him – and asked for Hermione’s recommendations on Ancient Runes. Sirius seemed to consider this subject rather useful, and Harry, who’d mulled it over, figured he could do worse than learn something about this branch of magic, especially after Sirius had mentioned the scar on Harry’s forehead was shaped like one of the runes from the Elder Futhark. Hermione was going to be ecstatic that Harry showed interest in one of her favourite subjects. Harry had planned to ask her about the Færeld, too, but remembered what Sirius had said about the Weasleys. It was possible that Hermione, if she knew about it, considered the Færeld to be dangerous, and Harry didn’t want to worry her.

And Hermione would know about the Færeld, Harry thought. She knew about things even Ron never heard of, and it was Ron who was raised surrounded by magic.

To be honest, Harry wasn’t sure what to make of the Færeld. Once asked, Sirius had shown him some spells over mirror – every day blessings, simple protection charms, things to say before supper. Harry got the impression that Sirius would be pleased if Harry followed the Færeld as well, but his godfather quite sternly insisted that it should be Harry’s choice and he nobody else got any say; this caused Harry to experience the butterbeer feeling again. Nobody had trusted Harry to form his own opinions before Sirius came along.

(Sirius made his elf bring Harry butterbeer, too, which admittedly helped).

Still, the Færeld was one thing he should keep secret from Ron, Harry thought. If what Sirius said about the Weasleys’ attitude was true, then Ron would certainly take it badly, and Harry didn’t want a row. The whole family was vehemently against Dark magic. Harry sympathized with them but resolved that if his mum could practice the Færeld, then at least some parts of it must have been alright, just like Sirius said. His mum died protecting Harry from a dark wizard, after all.

Sirius had suggested that Harry write Remus Lupin about it; as somebody who didn’t follow the Færeld, he could offer more insight. It tempted Harry to do so, but it felt awkward to write his former professor. Sirius could call him Moony all he wanted and talk about the old times, but to Harry he was almost a stranger; any relationship he’d had with Harry’s parents did not automatically made him known to Harry, too, and he said so. Sirius looked saddened – Harry thought his godfather had trouble controlling his emotions sometimes, a trace of his years in Azkaban - but there was also something in his eyes akin to muted rage. Sirius later said he believed Remus had no excuse for leaving Harry alone for such a long time without ever contacting him. Harry himself felt conflicted about it.

In the meantime, he picked a fork and decided it was easier to tuck in than mull over what was and what wasn’t Professor Lupin’s fault. The elf left Harry some casserole with the Heating Charm on, and pumpkin juice to which Harry was to add some Nutritional Potion. The mixture didn’t taste as good as the juice itself but Sirius had convinced Harry it was healthier for him this way. Harry, sneakily, agreed to drink his potion if Sirius did the same.

Harry thought Sirius was still too gaunt looking. His face looked thin and unhealthy with its pale, sallow complexion – wherever Sirius was hiding, it couldn’t be too sunny – and at times his eyes got that unfocused look which made Harry a bit apprehensive. Maybe writing to Professor Lupin was not a bad idea after all, mused Harry, if he could possibly keep an eye on Sirius.

Harry knew Sirius and Lupin were doing something hush-hush to secure Sirius’s freedom, but had not been told any details. ‘You’re a teenager, Harry’, Sirius explained patiently when Harry asked. ‘You’re not supposed to be worried about this stuff. Let me deal with it’. Harry’s suggestion to ask Dumbledore for assistance was met with an eye-roll, since Sirius was of opinion that if Dumbledore hadn’t helped him in 1981 and at Hogwarts in June, he wouldn’t do it now either. Harry didn’t ask about Dumbledore again. Sirius looked confident enough about whatever he prepared. Harry decided to trust him for now.

He had to ask Sirius about this casserole again, he thought. It was so much better than the leftover casserole he used to get from Aunt Petunia.

***

Remus sipped his tea in his kitchen as an owl arrived to him. He recognized the bird as belonging to Andrea and hurried to give it an owl snack and get the letter. Apparently a reply was not needed since the bird didn’t wait and seemed in a hurry to leave Remus.

He sighed. Birds could intuitively detect his lycantropy and never spent too much time with him. That was one of the reasons he relied on owls from the post office, unwilling to force any animal to spend time with him.

He returned to his creaky chair and broke the Macmillan seal on the envelope. Andrea always used a peculiar blue wax, as if to manifest her Ravenclaw background. Remus smiled.

_Dear Remus,_

_I hope it will please you to hear that the Claim of Retrification has been delivered to the SCAM Office today. I expect it has reached Amelia Bones by now._

_Frankly, Remus, I haven’t had that much fun in months. I’ll keep you posted._

_Yours,_

_Andrea_

Remus chuckled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm by no means a tarot expert, but certain interpretations I've found suggest The Fool to stand for new beginnings, adventures and developments; following one's heart without fear and facing vital decisions to be made, while the reversed Fool means recklessness. I think it suited the plot in this chapter because it offers a lot of possibilities but also presents a lot of things that Sirius can be known for or what he can plan.  
> The rune Sirius mentioned to Harry is called Sowilo and it is indeed shaped like a lightning bolt.


	7. Chapter 7

 

_SIRIUS BLACK TO STAND TRIAL_

_Amelia Bones, the current Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, has shocked the Ministry of Magic and the Wizarding World alike with the announcement that the notorious Azkaban escapee Sirius Black is to be given a full Wizengamot trial in the wake of his filling the Claim of Retrification against the Ministry of Magic earlier this week._

  _According to Director Bones, Sirius Black sues the Ministry for his unlawful imprisonment._

_‘Mr Black claims to have been sent to Azkaban without trial’, explained Madame Bones to our reporter. ‘He quotes his rights to be given trial are justified by Magna Carta Libertatum and the Habeas Corpus Act. Our research has shown that Mr Black’s files at the Ministry archives support his claim and investigation is ongoing to discover why in 1981 this precedent took place’._

_An elder of Wizengamot, Lady Grizelda Marchbanks, explains that the laws cited by Sirius Black are Muggle in origin and therefore unfamiliar to many Wizards._

_‘Both of them had been passed before the introduction of the Statute of Secrecy in 1689, and consequently are a part of our own legislature. At the time of their signing, the Wizarding World was a subject of the Muggle Parliament’._

_As of today, the Ministry has called Dementors off the order to Kiss Black on sight._

_‘Mr Black is guaranteed a fair Wizengamot trial’, Madame Bones spoke to The Daily Prophet. ‘The Ministry of Magic is concerned with any signs of injustice. We would like to assure Mr Black that he can attend the trial without any wrongful acts on our part’._

_Believed for 13 years to have killed one wizard and twelve Muggles with one spell, Sirius Black is considered to be one of the most powerful and dangerous Wizards in England. A member of the prominent dark family, Black gained notoriety as the Secret Keeper of the Potters. It is yet to be established how he managed to escape from Azkaban last summer, although the trial, scheduled for July 27 th, may shed some light on this scandal. _

_It is with bafflement that we at The Daily Prophet think of the Ministry’s decision to send Sirius Black to Azkaban sans trial, and we hope that the current administration can clear the matter._

_Mr Black has been unable to comment._

 

_***_

_Blimey, mate!_

_Have you read the Prophet? I thought it was a joke! Fred and George are now saying that Sirius is the best prankster of the century. But then dad went home all serious because they’re all panicked at the Ministry. He said heads are gonna roll. We’re only happy his department had nothing to do with the trials._

_Anyway, if you’re staying in touch with Sirius, tell him I’m keeping my fingers crossed, alright? Maybe he can get you out of the Dursleys?_

_Mum says you’re to take care of yourself and if Sirius shows up you’re not to go anywhere with him but you know how she worries. And she doesn’t know for sure he’s innocent. But she’s invited you to the Burrow for the last two weeks of the summer, do you think you can make it? I hope the Muggles will let you come!_

_Take care_

_Ron_

_***_

_Dear Harry,_

_It’s brilliant news about Sirius! I’m surprised he thought about suing the Ministry but it’s such a cunning move! I’ve read about the laws mentioned in the Prophet and it’s really quite brilliant. I think we should have a Wizarding Law elective at Hogwarts, don’t you agree?_

_Ron’s invited me to the Burrow for the last two weeks of summer holidays but this time I’m going to refuse. I’m feeling a bit bad about it and I would love to see you again, but boarding at Hogwarts means I can’t spend too much time with my parents, and we’re growing apart. I miss them and don’t want to come back home only for a few days every year. I hope we could meet up in Diagon Alley one day though, what do you think? Hopefully your family would let you spend the day with us._

_I’m attaching my notes on the Habeas Corpus and the Statute of Secrecy; I think you may find them useful since it’s Sirius we’re talking about._

_Yours,_

_Hermione_

_***_

Kreacher had left supper for Harry on the desk. It came with a package of  round oatmeal cookies which Sirius had heard Harry mention once as the best Leaky Cauldron snack. Harry smiled.

Harry eyed the food contemplatively, his hunger forgotten. He didn’t go hungry nowadays like he used to, but he preferred having some food put aside in case of Sirius ever forgetting sending Kreacher to him, or for whatever other emergency. Sighing, he wrapped a few cookies in a paper and put them under the loose floorboard, next to an apple, nuts and tasteless crispbread which only ended up there because Harry didn’t enjoy it at all but refused to waste food.

Harry then hesitated. Privet Drive outside was as quiet as a neighbourhood can be in a summer evening, the only sound reaching Harry’s ears being Aunt Petunia’s steps in the harden as she walked to turn the sprinkler off. Harry dared a look through the window, not observing anything out of ordinary, and held back before sitting down to eat.

Was there a right way of doing this? Sirius was really vague, and somehow Harry was reluctant to ask for details. The Færeld seemed like a personal matter, deeply private – and maybe Harry was wrong about it and it was only an impression Sirius had given, but if Harry wanted to start practicing it, he felt he should start it alone.

He had toyed with the idea for a few days now. Sirius had mentioned it a couple of times more, but only ever in passing; Harry knew next to nothing on the subject, but it was something that Sirius was doing, something that his parents had done, and if it offered a connection with the world of magic Harry had not yet experienced, he was eager to explore it.

His only concern was that he’d do something wrong and blow Privet Drive up.

‘Are you a Gryffindor or not?’, he muttered to himself. Wand in hand, he sat down and decided how to go about it. Sirius had mentioned something about offering an intention. But what was a right intention to offer? Harry had so many. How much food should he put aside? And what to choose? He didn’t like the tomatoes and would be happy to get rid of them, but somehow he didn’t think it was right. What was a sacrifice, really?

_Sirius, following Harry in his Animagus form, risking his soul to see if Harry was okay._

_Sirius, living in a house he hated, inhaling dark magic and dark memories, to secure a future for Harry._

_Sirius, spending twelve years in Azkaban for a crime he didn’t commit, having put his safety aside and risked his life as a decoy Secret Keeper._

Harry put aside some of his favourite foods on a separate plate and tapped it lightly with his wand, focusing on the intention. _Keep Sirius safe._

Nothing happened. He waited for a long moment, sitting restlessly long after Aunt Petunia had returned inside the house, long after she had called Dudley for supper and forgotten to call Harry; long after whatever must have been keeping his tea warm had lost its power.

Nothing happened. Maybe he was doing it wrong after all, Harry thought, but at least nothing blew up.

So he shrugged and started to tuck in. Then the world gleamed.

***

There was no better word to describe it. Everything around Harry was the same, and yet _more_ , real with the quiet intensity that Harry imagined he would see in better glasses. Only it was not about his sense of sight, really; somehow, his whole experience of the world heightened, his senses stretching beyond his fingertips, and as much as Harry hated Privet Drive and everything about it, for a second he felt he truly belonged to it.

In any other circumstances, Harry would think it was creepy, but not this time. He was a part of the world, the same way Privet Drive was a part of the world, and Hogwarts, and other places like Tokyo or Belarus; and other people, like countless New Yorkers and Hermione, and Ron, and Sirius and even Malfoy. For a moment, it was all right, and Harry felt at peace.

Then it faded, like a slow song, into the background of Harry’s muted awareness. Harry felt like crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Some more action will come soon, I promise.  
> Next chapter is being written but I'm rather busy so from now on the updates won't be as frequent. I'm not abandoning the story, though; simply, the first chapters had been written before I started posting, and now I have very little material left and there's a lot of writing to do but very little free time.  
> Next time: introducing a new point of view character and a lot of characters who could use a hug.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring a character going BAMF, and some other characters needing hugs and hot chocolate.

The stars burned against his eyelids.

Sirius felt them moving, drilling persistently through the tissue of his skin, pouring into his capillaries. His head felt heavy like a Bludger, falling down and down.

There was a danger here, somewhere. Sirius couldn’t see where. He couldn’t hear it or smell it, either.

Sirius knew he had hands that could protect him. They could grasp and punch and cast spells, or hide his head. They could not help when the danger was already inside him, spilling into his veins, travelling up to his heart, residing in his arteries.

It had corrupted him. Sirius was at its mercy. He sensed a fist of fear moving down to his stomach, squeezing until Sirius turned into one big bile of terror. His life was measured in infrequent heartbeats, in explosions of starry abysses.

And yet Sirius knew it was not dying; or he’d died countless times before. Perhaps he had truly died, a long time ago in Azkaban, and this was another person he was watching now, a Sirius from another time, from another space.

The thud of his anxious heart did not lessen, although now Sirius could no longer feel it pushing against his eardrums, against his eye sockets. It felt as if coming from a distance, as if calling from a depth of a well, from a cold dark place of nowhere. And yet the stars were still prodding into his skull.

‘ _Lumos_ ’, they said. The light was not bright the way Sirius feared, the way he could see it anyway, blinding his self. It was gentle and dimmed, the kind of light house elves would leave in Reggie’s bedroom overnight when he was little and afraid of trolls. ‘ _Accio_ blankets’.

There was a swish of the air and Sirius felt something enveloping him slowly, as if he were a scarred puppy. He trembled, quick to jump away.

‘Easy now, Padfoot. Breathe. Follow my voice. I’ll count to five, you breathe in. Can you do that for me? Breathe in. One. Two. Three...’

It was not the stars speaking, Sirius realized against the hammers working in his head. He knew that voice. He breathed in, obediently, and paused, holding his breath like the voice told him.

‘I’ll count to seven now. Breathe out slowly, Pads. One. Two. Three. Four...’

Sirius let out the air slowly, feeling his heart slowing down just a bit. It was hard, not releasing the air all at once, when the stars kept twirling, but the voice guided him.

‘...Seven. Good, Sirius. Again. Breathe in. One...’

He knew that voice, Sirius did. He remembered. It was soothing and comforting, like the blankets put over his shoulders.

‘And now out. One. Two. Three...’

He let himself relax a bit, his guard down, his heart calmer.

 

***

 

When Sirius opened his eyes, it was to Remus Lupin’s worried face searching his own.

‘Good, Pads. Drink it. It’s a standard Calming Draught. Should help you if the breathing did not’.

Remus waited for Sirius to accept the potion and then spoke again.

‘Let’s get you to the sofa. The floor is too cold for my old bones this close to the full moon’.

It was a poor joke, Remus knew. Not a proper joke at all. But it also did Sirius a sham of an excuse to move from the floor while saving his face.

Not that he had a lot to save after the panic attack Remus had just pulled him out of; but he more than anybody knew what it meant for friends to realize when to shut up and when to speak. They both had seen each other at their worst now. There was nothing to talk about.

Remus stood up slowly, careful not to tower above his oldest friend. He reached out to offer Sirius some help, and then they moved to the sofa bit by bit.

‘Do you mind if I put some music one?’, Remus asked casually. He did visit Grimmauld Place today with his old Muggle adapter shrunk in his pocket, intent on cheering the still gloomy place a bit more. Sirius didn’t answer and Remus thought that it was as good a moment as any to chase some old demons from this room and from Sirius’s mind.

‘Mozart, don’t you think?’, he chatted. You could never go wrong with Mozart. Remus was more partial to Chopin himself, but there was too much raw emotion flowing out of the works of the great Romantic. Remus thought about that cheerful mazurka in B-flat major which he his mother taught him to play on their old piano the summer after his sixth year, but it felt too excitable to be listened to now, especially with this dark undertone in it. Remus often wondered if Chopin was ever happy.

So, Mozart was it. Remus flicked his wand, levitating the adapter onto the table, and then swished again, unshrinking his old vinyls and picking the right one. Soon, the music filled the room with the steady, soothing rhythm – and Remus always found the C key to be a safe choice. He sat with Sirius, relaxing against the upholstery, one hand still on Sirius’s arm. He felt the tension slowly leaving his friend. Mozart would do his work, Remus decided.

And he, Remus, would do his.

‘I was completely out of it’, Sirius said hoarsely after a few long moments. It’s a way of offering his apology, Remus knew; he’d said similar things himself. He also knew there were very few things he could say in reply that would not scar Sirius further. Sirius needed no pity; he did need help, though, and Remus would get it for him.

‘You’re back now, Pads’, he said, reaching into his other pocket, the one which had no adapter in it. ‘Chocolate? I know we should have lunch first like responsible adults but we’ve always been ones to break the rules’.

Sirius nodded wordlessly, taking the offering for what it was. They sat in silent companionship until Sirius’s breath evened, and his body stopped shivering, and Mozart’s melodies lifted their moods better than any levitation charm.  The charmed ceiling twirled above their heads with no malice.

When they moved to the dining room later, Sirius’s hands were steady enough so he could cast a wandless charm on the adapter, levitating it in front of him on their way to the table.

Remus was bitterly proud of him.

 

***

 

The office of Albus Dumbledore was inundated with letters, making the space even more cluttered than usual. Fawkes, the fiery phoenix, appeared to be indifferent, which could not be said about a number of indignant portraits of the former headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts. Their comments varied from a snobby disapproval over the mess of Dumbledore’s desk, and the outrage over the impertinence that was the interruption of the work of the  headmaster by letters unworthy of his time.

On his part, Dumbledore serenely asked an elf to distribute more owl snacks and flicked his wand pointedly at the letters. The parchments arranged themselves into a neat pile, which Dumbledore supported with a handy spell so as to prevent it from falling over.

‘Smart, Dumbledore’, commented one of the portrait. The voice was dry and the accent flat. Dumbledore didn’t answer, walking swiftly to one of his silver instruments and moving it onto the desk with a melodic ding. ‘But not as smart as what my wayward great-grandson is doing’.

‘You’ve been keeping tabs on Sirius, then?’, Dumbledore asked, his tone absent-minded but his intention sharp. Phineas Nigellus Black, or what was left of his magical essence, nodded.

‘As much as I could. He did, of course, move all the portraits into the part of the house he is not currently using. Sirius may be a Gryffindor, but he was raised a Black’.

Dumbledore expected as much. The other portraits quieted, eager to listen to new developments. Phineas Nigellus was the only portrait informed on that matter, and he also was, unusually, not a portrait likely to gossip.

‘Does it mean you haven’t spoken to him?’, Dumbledore asked. His tone was still careful, as one’s had to be when talking to Phineas Nigellus.

‘It means you will learn nothing of consequence from me’, the portrait said and fell silent.

Of course, both of them knew it to be untrue; the mere fact that Sirius had moved the portraits meant that he was making his ancestral home habitable again, did not want any spies – Phineas only one of them – reporting to anybody – Dumbledore included – and had yet to claim the family magic, or he would have simply ordered the portraits the same way he probably ordered his house elf to be loyal only to him.

Above all, it confirmed what Albus had witnessed a few weeks back, when Sirius had fled from Hogwarts: Sirius Black indeed was sane. He also didn’t trust Albus Dumbledore.

Not that Dumbledore blamed him.

It was a bloody war. Dumbledore still remembered the dread they all felt when students, one after another, would be pulled out of the classroom only to learn their relatives had been killed. Dumbledore still remembered every name. No magical family was left unaffected, regardless of the side they were on.

At times Dumbledore hated the Wizarding World. Their accumulated conflicts had blown up and a war had broken out, and nobody knew better than Dumbledore who was caught up in the middle of this: children.

And so he acted. He’d used all the influence he had, all the connections he had, got even more involved in politics – all because it seemed obvious to him even then that the Ministry was nearly useless, and something had to be done. The war had to end.

So he had delegated some of his tasks as a Hedmaster to Minverva; she took care of most of his paperwork and watched over him as he slipped into a coma after nearly exhausting his magical core; he had sacrificed almost all his magical reserves to the school, the ways of the Færeld proving, again, to be a blessing and a curse alike. 

Since then, he had been renewing the sacrifice yearly. Dumbledore did not delude himself – he felt the strain. The Færeld took something from him, an essence of his magic, and gifted it to Hogwarts.

Dumbledore was weaker. This was good, he thought himself. He was aging. He could fall.

Hogwarts could not.

 He could fall and he could fail, it seemed now. Dumbledore was not proud of neglecting Sirius’s case like this; it was Barty Crouch Senior who was responsible for sentencing Death Easters at the time. Dumbledore trusted him, and in the whirlwind of these days, with little Harry somehow stopping what even Dumbledore himself could not, he had no time to oversee all the trials personally. The day Sirius was being shipped off to Azkaban, Dumbledore stood before the International Confederation of Wizards, idly letting Minister Bagnold ridicule herself as she defended the breaches of the Statue of Secrecy following Voldemort’s demise. It was their right to party, as she called it, that elevated him to the status of the Supreme Mugwamp in no time.

Dumbledore was still a bit grateful to Milicent Bagnold. Incompetent though she had been, it was her doing that had secured him the ears of the Confederation – nobody had ever wanted to listen to poor Milicent, with her diminutive posture, shrill voice and overall grandmotherly demeanour. Dumbledore was a safer option.

It wasn’t that Milicent had been completely hopeless, mused Dumbledore. She hadn’t made a good Minister, that was a given, but she hadn’t been sorted into Ravenclaw for nothing, and rose to be a formidable witch in her right. Dumbledore had remembered her eidetic memory, excellent knowledge of Wizarding Law, and strikingly efficient research skills – but it all made her a better scholar than a politician. In uncertain times, they needed a symbol. And Dumbledore always made a better symbol than Bagnold.

Being a symbol didn’t grant infallibility, though, as Dumbledore could clearly see now. He still had his doubts about Sirius Black’s innocence – and would have them until he heard the fugitive’s confession under Veritaserum, that’s for sure – but he also deeply believe in justice and saw himself at fault for not having secured Sirius a fair trial when it should have been expected.

Dumbledore suspected the man could be innocent, after all. This was heartbreaking – he knew it was possible to remain sane after years in a Wizarding prison, Gellert Grindelwald having accomplished exactly that – but being sane after thirteen years of illegal imprisonment  under the tender care of Dementors was a diametrically different matter.

And Harry. Dumbledore was no fool – he knew that Sirius would do everything in his power as soon as possible to get custody of his godson. If the man was in fact innocent, Dumbledore would have to make sure to let that happen only once Sirius has undergone therapy with Mind Healers.

Dumbledore remembered the terror still visible in Hagrid’s eyes, so many months after his return from the short time he had been forced to stay in Azkaban. The half-giant was one of the strongest people Dumbledore knew, perhaps stronger than Sirius himself. There was no telling what was left of Sirius Black.

There was also the matter of making Harry safe without the protection of the Privet Drive wards. Dumbledore knew he had done for Harry what he could, but the measures he had taken were not going to last forever.

Sighing, he sank down onto his comfortable chair – far too soft for his whirling thoughts – and reached for a quill. Fawkes cooed reassuringly, silencing the murmur of the portraits. Dumbledore felt little comfort.

 

***

 

Andrea Macmillan had not imagined the Boy Who Lived spending his childhood in a Muggle street filled with orderly rows of identical houses, with the same neat lawns and the same expensive cars parked outside just ostensibly enough to show off the owners’ social status. Privet Drive was as dreadfully dull as any History of Magic lesson, Andrea thought.

She had nothing against Muggles per se – she couldn’t look down on their magical inability when she herself couldn’t control her own power next to their electric devices. Her grandmother was a Muggleborn and Andrea had enough sense to learn about her non-magical ancestors. She worked hard to ensure that Ernie would appreciate his Muggle heritage, distant as it was – it would not be good for him to walk through the world ignorant. She was going to do the same for the baby, too. Her children may be a part of the Wizarding world, but  their roots were grounded in the Muggle one, too, and she didn’t discriminate against her own family history.

What she opposed was any lack of creativity and hypocrisy. Privet Drive reeked of both. Andrea threw a look of distaste at the street, thinking that she had to fit right in with her nondescript grey Muggle dress and a plain jacket she’d transfigured from her outer robes.

Sighing, she stopped in front of Number Four Privet Drive and braced herself for an unpleasant meeting.

The woman who opened the door bore no likeness to Lily Evans; a blue-eyed, long-necked blonde in a floral Muggle blouse and neatly ironed trousers, with  her face sporting an ugly scowl. She was taller and more willowy than the sturdy and pregnant Andrea, who had to look up to greet her.

‘Mrs Petunia Dursley, I presume’, she made an effort to smile. ‘My name is Andrea Macmillan’.

The woman pressed her lips into an impossibly thin line, but nodded reluctantly and opened the door. She must have read Andrea’s letter, then, although Andrea had received no answer.

‘Come in’, she said briskly, ‘I hope this will be quick’.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d be home’, Andrea offered, her tone light. ‘My owl returned without any reply’.

Mrs Dursley did not look ashamed in the slightest; in fact, she held her head a tiny bit higher. Andrea got the impression that the woman must have thought to be above her.

This was a very ironic development, the prejudice against Muggles taken into account. Andrea would prefer to live in a world free of any kind of inequality, but seeing that Mrs Dursley’s bigoted behaviour was directed at her, Andrea let herself smile at the thought, at least internally.

‘I don’t have a habit of exchanging correspondence with your kind’, she sniffed delicately in answer to Andrea’s earlier query.

Andrea wondered how the woman kept in touch with her nephew during the school year, but fearing she knew the answer, she decided not to ask, especially that Petunia Dursley led Andrea to a painfully clean living room in which there were no pictures of Harry to be seen.

‘I would offer you tea but it would be best if you left as soon as possible’, Petunia announced frostily. ‘I told that wretched old man  I wanted nothing to do with you. Tell me where to sign and take the boy with you’.

Andrea could definitely believe Remus about Harry Potter’s home situation now.

‘I did not mean I would adopt your nephew, Mrs Dursley’, Andrea replied, now almost boiling in anger. Her magic was always stronger when she was pregnant, hormones changing, emotions flowing with her magical core. She had to keep herself from reaching for her wand. Once she’s returned home, she was going to sacrifice her anger during supper. She needed strength for Black’s trial and what was going to come after.

She also needed a bath, once the Faereld was done. And Anthony, so he could massage her feet.

‘I meant that I would appreciate it if I could take him for the weekend so he’d spend some time with his friends’.

At first Andrea had planned to mention the possibility of Harry not returning to Privet Drive after this summer, but with Petunia being as dreadful and pathetic as she was, Andrea decided not to mention it. She started to doubt whether the woman had passed to Harry the letter that was addressed to him.

Mrs Dursley’s lips got even thinner with disapproval. If Andrea was not witnessing it with her own eyes, she’d never believe it – but the woman had the gall to look angry!

‘I hope he’d be gone with you to this school for freaks’, Petunia Dursley hissed. ‘That’s the only reason why I let you in’.

Andrea was a lawyer. She knew that under the British Wizarding Law, penalties for attacking Muggles and destroying Muggle property were not as high as they should be. She still forced herself not to blast the Dursleys’ pictures off their walls and not to hex the woman next week simply because her own moral code mattered to her more than Wizengamot’s prejudice. But Andrea was going to do something, and Merlin help her if Petunia Dursley was going to be the same woman afterwards.

So she drew her wand, slowly, deliberately, as if she were still in Flitwick’s class. That alone made Petunia Dursley step back.

‘How dare you, in my house!’, she shrieked. ‘I’ll tell my husband! I’ll call the police!’.

Andrea did not bother to inform the woman that she had checked Vernon Dursley always returned home at five thirty, and that the telephone was nowhere within Petunia’s reach. Instead, she aimed at one of the hideous pictures behind Petunia’s head – undoubtedly making her think she was going to attack her, and that was, in fact, a point – and clearly cast a Wingardium Leviosa.

The picture levitated steadily in front of Petunia’s eyes. The woman’s face grew even paler.

‘This is just a simple thing I can do’, Andrea said pleasantly, as if they were drinking tea and exchanging gossip. ‘I can make things fly. I could levitate all of the things in this room out of it, for everybody to admire in your lawn. I could make your china go up and up to the ceiling, and then I would drop them all, and they would look so lovely shattered on your floor. And that’s what I can do with only one spell’.

She took a measured step forward, closer to Petunia, and smiled, rather friendly.

‘I could swing my wand and this picture would hit your head faster than a lightning’.

Then, wordlessly, she glued the frame back to the wall. The obese boy from the picture smiled at her stupidly. Andrea pushed her wand back into the wand-holder.

‘I could get you tried for child neglect, both in your Muggle court and our Wizarding one. And both of them would not show you any mercy. Get Harry Potter, now, Mrs Dursley’.

The woman did, giving her a wide break as she skipped around Andrea to bring her nephew from the garden. She did not return when the door to the living room opened after a moment.

A wary Harry Potter entered alone, with his wand held tightly in front of him.

‘My name is Andrea Macmillan’, she said before he had a chance to. ‘I’m hired by Remus Lupin to represent Sirius Black’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are! I think it's the longest chapter so far, and it's been really fun to write.  
> Mozart has been proven to have a positive effect on people - listening to him can lower your blood pressure, for example (I think this particular study is a relatively recent one, and I don't know if Remus could know it in 1994. But he's smart and intuitive so I assume he could). The breathing thing Remus helped Sirius go through lowers the heartbeat rate. It's one of the techniques possible to use when one is having a panic attack. I figured Remus would know a lot of such stuff, with his Werewolf transformations being extremely stressful; as a teacher - and even more so, as a teacher who actually designed and conducted lessons dealing with students confronting their worst fears - he also must be empathic and competent enough to deal with such things.  
> Also, [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wk3eBPC3KKE) is the mazurka Remus was thinking about, performed by one of my favourite pianists, Janusz Olejniczak. I really encourage you to listen to it. Sadly I don't remember which particular Mozart piece I had in mind when I was writing.  
> Pottermore says that after the fall of Voldemort in 1981, Minister Bagnold defended the celebrations across Britain saying that the Wizarding World had a right to party, even though it breached the Statute of Secrecy. I don't know when Dumbledore got his power in the Confederation, but if Bagnold said a few things of such kind, I can see him rising as an alternative to her. By the way, it's canon she was a Claw.  
> BAMF!Andrea was such a joy to write! I hope it serves as a nice counterpoint against the initial angst. Poor Sirius. And Remus. They'll feature in the next chapter too, along with Dumbledore.  
> And about the next chapter, I'm not sure when I can post it. Don't expect it before next weekend; I need to write it almost completely from scratch, and I'm going to be rather busy.  
> Thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

The house looked thoroughly English, like those which Aunt Petunia always looked up in her glossy magazines. Harry knew very little about architecture, and even less about countryside traditions, but the Macmillans’ house made him think of both. It wasn’t grand like Hogwarts, but it could, too, feel homely.

Mrs Macmillan led him straight to the living room – watery green walls, patterned carpets on the creaky floor, bibelots and trinkets on the mantelpiece – introduced him to a shy elf who took his bag up to the guest room, and casually sent a Patronus down the hall. Harry’s eyes widened at the display of magic. Mrs Macmillan looked unperturbed.

‘Remus is waiting for you in the office’, she explained, ‘but I thought you’d be more comfortable here. Do you want me to stay while you two are catching up?’

Harry wasn’t sure about any catching-up – in fact, if he and Professor Lupin were about to have one, it was going to cover the last thirteen years – and he said so. Mrs Macmillan gave him a long look that made Harry only slightly more uncomfortable than he’d already been.

‘Nettle’, she called the house elf again, ‘please bring us tea and scones for three’. And she sat down on the  soft red sofa, looking at peace in the slightly clattered room. She seemed rather relaxed, much more than he’d ever seen Ernie to be, and definitely too calm for Harry’s liking.

‘Your room is next to Ernie’s, by the way’, she mentioned as they waited. ‘I don’t think you’re very close but thought it would be nice if you had somebody your age next to you’.

‘Thanks’, Harry said, awkwardly. He and Ernie were hardly friends after the latter had suspected Harry of being the Heir of Slytherin in their second year. Mrs Macmillan seemed to sense that something was the matter. She was scarily perceptive.

Harry decided that staring at the carpet was easier than talking with her – what was it with adults that they made conversations seem worse than fighting a Basilisk? – and could think of nothing that he actually wanted to say to Professor Lupin. The man had in fact helped him with the Patronus Charm, but that was it – he had not been involved in Harry’s life at all, and as a teacher he always maintained his distance. Harry did not know how to feel with the idea that Lupin was suddenly treated as somebody who took interest in Harry’s well-being.

And so Harry was not thrilled when Lupin entered the room – bags under his eyes, patches on his elbows, new wrinkles on his face. There was something different about Lupin, something not quite tangible; it wasn’t the clothes – he still wore his tattered robes. Nor was it his smile – kind, quiet, as if slightly awkward, and Harry, though no without guilt, didn’t feel like smiling back. Whatever it was, it puzzlingly made Lupin look both older and younger at the same time.

‘Hello, Harry’, Lupin said, his tone as amber-warmed as his eyes. ‘Andrea’.

Harry gave an awkward wave – there was something really quite bizarre in sitting in a house of a classmate who didn’t like you, with the classmate’s mother who seemed to like you, and with a former professor who might like you too but there was no telling whether he cared, too.

‘I’ll sit here, if you two don’t mind’, Andrea chirped. She clasped her hands on her belly and leaned back, a perfect picture of contentment. Lupin sent her a sharp look and nodded.

He sat down in front of Harry. There was a coffee table separating them, and Harry breathed with relief. When Nettle showed up with their tea, which Mrs Macmillan served with obvious pleasure, Harry silently praised whoever had come up with the ritual of tea drinking. The awkwardness he felt melted with the warmth of the cup in his hand.

‘How are you, Harry?’, Lupin asked. He did look genuinely interested, not only polite.

‘I’m fine, thanks’, and Harry really was, this summer, comparing to previous ones. He was also really curious. ‘Why am I here, really? What is going on?’

‘You’re here so you don’t have to slave away the whole summer’, Andrea put in angrily and then suddenly stopped. ‘Oh, sorry. You talk, Remus, I’ll be as quiet as a mouse’.

Harry didn’t believe her at all.

‘Andrea is right, of course’, Remus said. ‘And we’re working on freeing you from the Dursleys, as Sirius must have told you. His trial is fast approaching, and as a free man he should be granted custody very easily – he is your godfather, your appointed guardian, and he’s going to claim his family’s Lordship to get more political power and protect you better this way. It may take time before you can move in, though, Harry’, he warned. ‘There’s a room waiting for you at Sirius’s place, but Sirius may not be allowed to take care of you immediately after his trial. There are procedures to be completed and his mental health has to be evaluated, too’.

‘I know all of that’, Harry said. ‘Sirius’d told me. Why are you repeating that, Professor?’

‘To make it easier for you to follow the whole picture’, Lupin answered calmly. ‘And to explain to you that staying at Andrea’s for a few days means that you are free to Floo to Sirius for a few hours. Even today if you want’.

Harry did, very much.

‘You’re going to eat first, though’, Andrea said. ‘And drink your tea, Harry. Sorry, Remus, I won’t interrupt you again’.

‘Of course you won’t’, he sighed. ‘Sirius is going to have to give you some lessons, Harry. Wizarding culture, how to behave, things like that – things your father would have taught you as a Potter but never had the chance. Sirius is going to have quite a high position in this world, and you already have it, both because of your family name and because of your own. You’ll have time to learn that, don’t worry. Sirius will guide you through it, but we’d like to brief you in before the trial’.

‘It’s possible you’ll be asked to testify’, Andrea mentioned. ‘I hope your Pensieve memory would suffice, though’.

‘Andrea’, Lupin said, rolling his eyes. ‘Don’t worry about the trial now, Harry. We just want to prepare you so you won’t feel lost, okay?’

‘Why didn’t I hear about any traditions I have to learn when I was at Hogwarts?’, Harry asked.

‘Because Dumbledore is an idiot’, muttered Mrs Macmillan under her nose. 

‘Because Professor Dumbledore thought that Muggle-raised children would absorb them from their classmates. He didn’t take into account that not all of you interact with each other, or even think that traditions are something important to mention’,  Lupin explained, his voice slightly raised to muffle Andrea’s snort. ‘And admittedly not many Wizards follow these traditions. When you graduate, though, you may be expected to’.

‘Is it because of the Færeld again?’, Harry asked, because it all seemed rather similar. Andrea gave him an approving look.

‘Not only’, she said. ‘It means your general behaviour, but it is all connected. We taught Ernie that, too’.

Harry privately thought that if he was going to be forced to behave like Ernie, he’d rather not learn at all.

***

At Mrs Macmillan’s insistence, Harry and Professor Lupin stayed for dinner. Harry would have rather eaten with Sirius; Nettle was an even better cook than Kreacher, but the atmosphere was rather tense, despite Andrea’s attempts to keep a light-hearted conversation. Professor Lupin kept chatting with her and tried to involve Harry, too, but Harry himself preferred to be quiet. Ernie sat in front of him, a bit pompously, and was perfectly polite to him all the time. Harry had no idea what the other boy was thinking.

He also didn’t know how Ernie could grow up to be so puffed up with somebody as mischievous as his mother around. Ernie’s father, who got home just in time for dinner, seemed to be quite friendly too, although more serene than Mrs Macmillan. He was obviously tired, but welcomed Harry warmly enough. His brown eyes never even rested on Harry’s forehead. Harry instantly took a liking to him.

‘Harry, dear’, Mrs Macmillan said cheerfully, waiting politely until Harry was done chewing his potatoes. ‘Do you know Susan Bones? She’s Ernie’s friend, and she’s coming over tomorrow. I thought you three could spend some time together’.

Harry did know Susan Bones, although not very well, and he said so.

‘Susan’s a really nice girl’, interjected Lupin. ‘I assume you had little contact with Hufflepuffs outside of the classroom, isn’t it right, Harry?’.

‘Yeah’, Harry said. “But we’ve talked a few times’.

‘I’m very unhappy with the houses policy discouraging so many friendships’, Andrea declared, her voice losing some of its mirth.

‘It does encourage others, though’, her husband said mildly. It seemed to be an old argument.

‘And in many ways it’s now easier for Ernie and Susan to spend time with Lavender Brown in summer than at school, Anthony’.

Harry was startled. He never thought about Lavender having any friends outside Gryffindor – or any friends other than Parvati. He suddenly wondered if it was difficult for Parvati to meet with her Ravenclaw twin.

‘There aren’t any friendly spaces where you can cultivate friendships, Remus’, Andrea continued passionately. ‘The Great Hall is not enough. Classrooms are not enough. School grounds can work in spring, sometimes. Hogsmeade weekends are few and far between. How can the children socialize if there is no place to do so?’.

‘You and I managed, somehow’, Lupin smiled, reminding Andrea of their own inter-House friendship. ‘Although I do think you are right. It is a problem. And about socializing... now, wouldn’t it be the right time for us to leave, Harry? I believe somebody is waiting for you rather anxiously’.

***

‘ _Diffindo’,_ Sirius muttered that evening as a spell travelled fast, hitting the dummy positioned on the other side of the room. Sirius gave it a happy look.

Seriously, turning his mother’s spacious bedroom into a duelling room was his second best idea. The first was, of course, slowly building up his way to getting Harry to live with him.

He waved his hand sloppily, not bothering to say any incantations. He’d become rather proficient at silent Mending Spells after destroying the dummies so many times this summer.

He fired a few hexes, testing his strength. His wandless magic felt so stable now, and even more so since he’d started daily meditations. The Færeld magic was not without consequences, either; Sirius could begin to feel a better connection with his magical core, and that, in turn, must have given a boost to his wandless casting. His ability was nowhere near his pre-Azkaban skill, but Sirius hoped he was slowly getting there.

Duelling with Remus helped, too. Sirius felt they still had a lot of unresolved issues, mostly concerning Moony’s lack of involvement in Harry’s life. He knew they needed to talk it over. And yet it was easier to duel to release his anger – they weren’t Gryffindors for nothing. Remus seemed to sense that, but they both realized that this would not last forever.

Tomorrow, Sirius thought. We’ll sort this out tomorrow.

Tonight, Harry was coming home.

 Sirius whistled cheerfully, heading to the living room. He had some business to complete before Harry’s arrival, and this might not be pleasant, but today nothing could spoil this mood.

***

The fireplace flared brightly.

Sirius flickered his fingers. The room was silent, other than Sirius’s steps. The wards activated, runes encompassing the area between Sirius and the fireplace, protecting him if needed. Sirius had taken a lot of pleasure drawing them, sacrificing some of his pent-up energy to make them as aggressive as possible without being harmful. They twirled gold and strong. Sirius was quite proud, if he could say so himself.

He stood in front of the mantelpiece, not really tense, but ready to strike if needed. He hadn’t felt any charms or hexes on the letter he’d received, but his caller was more cunning than most.

He was not a Black though, and Blacks were the most cunning of all.

Sirius twirled his fingers again the moment a head appeared in the fireplace. It was an old head, with long, gray hair and a beard that Merlin could be envious of. Sirius knew the caller’s age had nothing to do with his sharpness, so the runes turned invisible in that second – early enough for the man not to read all of them, but late enough for him to see that Sirius had taken measures to protect himself if need be.

‘Hello, Sirius’, Dumbledore said. ‘A fancy set of wards, if I can say so myself’.

Sirius nodded, wary. He doubted the man could sense all of them – Sirius was just really, really good at Ancient Runes, so good that Dementors hadn’t even thought to bother his cell for the first two years of his stay in Azkaban, so heavily had he warded the place. Even if Dumbledore practiced the Færeld – and if he did, he kept very quiet about it because even Remus had heard _nothing_ during his year as a professor – the runes would be almost impossible to spot.

Sirius decided that Dumbledore was playing omniscient again. Nothing new under the sun, then.

‘Lord Dumbledore’, he answered. The man’s eyes widened just a bit and Sirius enjoyed that rather a lot. Of course Dumbledore would understand all the implications. Honouring him that way, Sirius ensured no harm would befall Dumbledore in his house.

Oh, heads would roll, Sirius was sure of that. But not this one.

‘So that’s how you want to talk, Sirius?’, he asked. It didn’t seem that he expected an answer.

Sirius noticed Dumbledore didn’t reply using Sirius’s title. Well, that was telling him something. If Dumbledore had returned the courtesy, he’d accept the same code of conduct Sirius just had. That he did not meant a number of things, not last of them being the possibility that Dumbledore just played his usual condescending self; and yet, Sirius mentally congratulated himself o his earlier display of wards.

He hoped Dumbledore had caught on that Sirius must have cast the runes wandlessly.

‘I’ve assumed you are here in an official capacity – as a Lord of your House, Supreme Mugwump or Chief Warlock. I hope you don’t have any Hogwarts business to discuss with me since I graduated some time ago and have no offspring at your school’.

Yet, he thought, and Dumbledore may have sensed that. Harry was coming home today.

‘Or I could be here as your friend, Sirius’, Dumbledore replied evenly.

Sirius raised his eyebrow – a gesture his father had made him perfect at the age of eleven. He doubted even Dumbledore had to go through so much practice at political games as a child.

‘This is rather curious, if you let me say so’, he replied. ‘You see, Lord Dumbledore, I haven’t seen much friendliness from you in many years. But maybe I was reading you wrong’.

He could have played it differently, Sirius knew. But he wanted to test Dumbledore – and to show him that now it was Sirius who wielded some of the power, in more ways than one.  Dumbledore, of course, would know that. Sirius was counting on that.

‘I apologize’, the man said, his eyes losing the ever-present twinkle. Sirius had to school his face so as not to show his surprise. He’d thought Dumbledore would apologize, but was ready to suffer through a lot of manoeuvring first. For the man to do it so soon, and so openly... Sirius immediately started to wonder what kind of a game Dumbledore was playing now.

There was a possibility he was sincere, of course. Sirius was just not naive enough to believe that.  

‘Thank you’, Sirius said. ‘I could, of course, evoke a debt between our families’.

Dumbledore didn’t show any emotion at that. Sirius figured he’d known about the possibility.

‘And will you?’, Dumbledore simply asked.

Sirius paused.

‘That depends on why you’re here’.

‘If your innocence is proven, you’re going to claim the custody’, Dumbledore said immediately. Sirius didn’t miss the if. ‘I want to ensure Harry’s safety’.

‘You’ve done a marvellous job so far’, Sirius retorted flatly. Let the man interpret this however he likes.

‘You are undoubtedly aware that it is his mother’s sacrifice that is keeping him safe at his aunt’s’, Dumbledore went on, obviously willing to ignore the remark he’d just heard, ‘and if Harry moves in with you, you’re going to need the strongest safety wards you can get. Harry should never leave his relatives but if you are innocent, I will have no way to stop you from taking care of him’.

At least he seemed sincere this time. It was rare to hear Dumbledore speak clearly, without riddles. Sirius wondered if he should feel honoured. For the time being he decided to ignore Dumbledore’s treatment of Harry. They could deal with that later.

‘What would you suggest, then?’

Dumbledore’s response was, again, prompt and sure.

‘I will not help you prior to the trial’, he announced. ‘I have failed you. I should have acted when Bartemius sent you off to Azkaban. In my defence, I had no knowledge of the fact that there was no trial’. Dumbledore paused, looking at Sirius with something akin to regret. Sirius didn’t buy it but let the man talk. It was easier to get information that way. ‘I regret it deeply, Sirius. Unfortunately, there is no way I could act supportive of you now without being accused of partiality, and frankly, I need to see you confess under Veritaserum before I can do anything. But I’m giving you my offer now. Freely’.

Sirius listened.  

‘If you are, in fact, innocent, and your mental health is not a concern, Hogwarts will make no moves against your  taking custody over Harry’.

Sirius could not help it. He took a deep breath, audibly. Remus and him had anticipated a number of problems coming from Dumbledore. They had gone through most of them with Andrea, planning possible outcomes. None of them included the idea that Dumbledore may not be opposed to them.

‘Since the war, I have been strengthening the wards around the school yearly’, Dumbledore continued, obviously noticing Sirius’s reaction but giving him no time to recover. ‘With the help of the Færeld’.

Sirius had to give it to Dumbledore. The man knew how to drop a bomb.

‘I’m willing to do the same for your and Harry’s home, if it comes to that’, Dumbledore said. ‘And if you are not against accepting my help, I would be also willing to as your Secret Keeper’.

‘Thank you for your offer, Lord Dumbledore’, Sirius answered. His mind was buzzing. “It’s too early to decide now, but I will consider this’.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled again as he smiled.

‘Have a good afternoon, Heir Black’, he called. The flames then flashed brighter and he disappeared.

The room again was silent.

And then, just as an overwhelmed Sirius was heading to Harry’s new bedroom to check for the last time if everything was in its place, the wards flashed again, notifying him of two wizards entering the property.

All Pureblood decorum aside, Sirius ran down the stairs taking three steps at a time.

Harry finally came home.

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 There was a broomstick dropped carelessly on the floor in the hall in the northern wing of the manor. Narcissa pressed her lips in anger and clapped her hands. She had long trained her elves to respond to gestures. It was more elegant, really. When an elf appeared – looking as scared as ever, the pathetic thing – she pointed at the broom and soon both the Nimbus and the elf vanished.

Narcissa nodded to herself, again on her way. Good. House Elves should know better than to let things scatter around as if the Malfoys were living in a Muggle barn.

Narcissa took a long, pleased look at the hallway, enjoying the way the candlelight glimmered in the old ornamental candelabras, and nodded respectfully at oil paintings of Lucius’ ancestors. The Malfoys may not be as ancient as her own Black line, Narcissa thought, but she made sure to do her best to improve their standing.

Sometimes, it was almost doable to forget she was a Black – one sister a Muggle-lover, the other in Azkaban,  a curse of madness in their veins. Narcissa was very glad that Draco seemed to be sane – spoiled, but sane, and who could refuse her when she wanted to dote on her only son? Pureblood children were a rare gift, and Narcissa was thankful for this one.

She knew there were methods, of course. Not even dark ones. The Færeld hang like a whisper on her mind, but Narcissa knew she was not brave enough, not strong enough, not true enough. So she would do with what she had, and nobody could say she didn’t have a lot.

She walked down the corridor, her silk summer robes silver in the dim light, and knocked on her son’s door. It opened without his word and without a sound. Narcissa glided in.

There was a mess in his suite too, she immediately noticed. New robes on the floor, Quidditch gloves on the windowsill, leather-bound books around with their pages torn. Narcissa’s bond with the manor had not alarmed her of any accidental magic, so it must have been a result of sheer anger. Narcissa sighed internally.

How positively _Muggle_ of her son.

He was, obviously, moping, spread on the armchair in a dramatic pose. Narcissa could see right through it.

‘You should have summoned an elf, Draco’, she scolded lightly. ‘This is rather unbecoming’.

‘I want to be alone, Mother’, her son said. His eyes were clouded, eyelids heavy, and in that moment Narcissa could see a ghost of Bella in him, too.

He, too, was a Black.

‘And I want to talk to you, and I will, Draco’, she said, her voice not so gentle anymore. Draco seemed to recognize it, as he looked at her. She clapped her hands again, and only once the elf had cleaned up after her son, Narcissa sat down, folding her skirts elegantly, her favourite pale silk falling down like a starry waterfall.

‘I thought we talked about it last year, Draco’, she remarked. ‘Your father will take care of the politics for now, and what you are supposed to do is to play your part. Act like a proper Pureblood, not like a Weasley’.

She pronounced the last word carefully, with just a hint of venom in her otherwise flat voice. It seemed to work. It always did. Slowly, Draco shifted so he was no longer sprawled in the soft chair.

‘I, too, am dissatisfied with the state of affairs, Draco’, Narcissa confessed stoically, although inside she wanted to curse things. ‘If my cousin is indeed innocent, chances are that your position as the Black Heir is going to be threatened. Do you remember how the succession works?’

Draco nodded, a gesture reminiscent of his childhood lessons.

‘He regains the Black Heir title the moment his name is cleared. As he is of age, he can claim the Lordship immediately. He is obliged to name his heir within two weeks’.

Narcissa smiled faintly with approval.

‘Correct. He is heir apparent. You are heir presumptive. We have worked hard to ensure that you would have a lot of political power once you enter the scene, but this power is going to be reduced significantly if you only carry the title of the Malfoy Heir and not Malfoy-Black’.

Narcissa omitted the bitter truth that Sirius was likely to claim his godson as his heir. She hoped that her son would have deduced this fact himself, but she doubted he’d be this calm if that had been the case. She felt a ping of disappointment. They had trained him better than that.

With Draco sulking and Lucius spending a hopefully productive afternoon at the Ministry – Narcissa hoped the bribes they had come up with would be enough to sway some more shady Wizengamot members from voting in favour of Sirius’ innocence – Narcissa had begun arranging a simple yet tasteful tea with her close and not so close female acquaintances, wives of those Wizengamot members with whom Lucius may have little luck. As she planned, she also composed a letter to Sirius to be posted in the morning. You could never be too prepared, and as a Black, Narcissa had been taught to plan for every possibility.

Too bad, she thought, looking at her sullen son, that Sirius had been taught the same.

 

***

 

The ceiling was charmed, almost like in Hogwarts.

Harry gaped, his mouth open wide. Sirius entered the room behind him, his hand on Harry’s shoulder, and chuckled warmly at Harry’s reaction. Harry closed his mouth.

‘This is incredible’, he exclaimed. ‘Did you do this yourself?’

‘My ancestor did’, Sirius replied. ‘This is way beyond my abilities, especially now, without  wand’.

Harry nodded quietly. To his eye, Sirius didn’t seem to have any major problem without a wand – and how cool was it, to be able to use wandless magic? – but he knew he’d be in despair if he ever had to let go of his own wand. Sirius shrugged – and stopped in the middle, as if catching himself in the act of doing so. Harry thought it was strange. Sirius just smiled, shook his head, and conjured a ball of energy, almost like a star, sending it up to the enchanted sky. It kept floating there.

‘It’s my favourite room in the house’, Sirius said. ‘I used to have lessons here, as a child. My Aunt Cassiopeia taught me Astronomy here. I could have passed my Astronomy OWL years before going to Hogwarts’, he smiled. ‘I often come here to think’.

‘I think I know why’, Harry said, watching the ball move leisurely from one star to another. ‘This room almost beats mine’.

Sirius smiled at that and tousled Harry’s hair. Harry’s room was the greatest place Harry had ever seen, better even than their Hogwarts dormitory – beige and green, with high windows that made it look spacious, alight with those pale yellow lights Sirius let float everywhere. Harry thought they looked like very lazy Snitches. There were bookcases there filled with Wizards’ novels and magical theory, including a number of Ancient Runes textbooks that must have belonged to Sirius himself, and Harry found new Quidditch gear in the wardrobe which turned Harry’s skin garish orange. Sirius only cancelled the spell once he’d taken a picture, and then he had to listen to Remus’ scolding.

Harry thought it was the best evening ever.

Suddenly, Sirius winked at Harry.

‘Look’, he said, and moved his hand. The light ball attached itself to the charmed ceiling, and then Sirius pulled. Within a moment, the sky view shifted, stars falling, constellations flying, planets soaring as if there was no gravity, only Sirius and his will. Harry watched, enthralled, as Sirius broke it off.

‘The constellation of Ursa Major’, Sirius murmured. Harry stared in wonder – the ceiling looked different now, showing stars Harry didn’t recognize, although he was sure Hermione could recite entire volumes of information about them. ‘There is a planet out there’, Sirius continued, waving his hand so that the celestial body flashed red, drawing Harry’s attention. ‘It traverses a long ellipsoid orbit, like that’, and it started to move, ‘from eighty million miles at one end to the distance of almost three million miles from its sun at the other. And it takes it but a hundred days. When it blazes next to its sun, its atmosphere erupts into an explosion of sorts because of the sudden increase in temperature’. Sirius stopped his lecture, looking at Harry intently. Above them, the body still moved elliptically, as if dancing.

‘It is things like that that give me comfort, Harry. There is magic in this world beyond the spells and courses, even beyond the Færeld, and we’re all just a small part of it. It brings me hope that it all will be all right in the end’.

Sirius was more solemn than Harry had ever seen, his eyes dark, almost like the colour of his traditional long robes.  They stood there, together, watching the stairs. Then Sirius smiled freely.

‘Want to learn how to manipulate this sky?’

 

***

 

Harry was supposed to stay only for a few hours but persuaded them easily to let him stay overnight. Sirius, to be fair, didn’t need much convincing – he simply said that Harry’s pyjamas could be find in the wardrobe in his room, and to call Sirius if he needed a bedtime story. Harry snickered at that, but the two ended up reading together some Quidditch magazines Remus had bought at Sirius’ insistence a few days before.

So Remus stood in the library, nursing his last cup of coffee for the day. He had been meaning to read – he’d found Bertrand Russell’s _In Praise of Idleness_ in a second-hand bookshop the previous month and had been waiting for a quiet moment to open the old, yellowed pages. It had been Lily who introduced him to the works of this Muggle philosopher, he recalled suddenly. Her mother used to read him. Lily, with her quick but contemplative mind, found philosophy fascinating – at least between the times when she obsessed over magical theory, Remus in tow.

But now the book was left on the table, untouched, and Remus’ tea was going cold. Remus heard quick steps – it must be Sirius, he thought, and he realized that they needed to talk.

Sirius entered – clearly content but determined. He wore the same dark long robes as before, traditional in cut, probably getting used to the role of a proper Head of House – or just a role of a sane Wizard, Remus thought bitterly.

‘I called Andrea to let her know Harry’s staying with you tonight’, he announced before Sirius had a chance to say anything. His friend nodded, and then scowled.

‘With us, you wanted to say’, he corrected. ‘You’re all but living here and Andrea would never let Harry stay here overnight without you supervising the mentally unstable godfather suspected of criminal activities’.

‘Andrea had seen you confess under Veritaserum, Siri, don’t be so...’

‘And I am not going to let you walk away this time, either, Remus. You’re either going to be involved in Harry’s life from now on, properly, or say your goodbyes in the morning and leave’.

Remus put the cup away, gingerly.

‘So this is what you want to talk about’, he sighed. ‘It’s long overdue’.

Sirius looked angrier at these words, angrier than ever – there was a beam of sheer power frizzling between his fingers, and Remus recalled with sudden clarity that Sirius was, in fact, unstable, and without a wand, but with a lot of magic at his disposal and with anger and pain that fuelled it better than Remus’ own wand could perhaps conduct.

‘Sit down’, he said, looking just below Sirius’ eyes. ‘Sit down and we can talk’.

Sirius didn’t. He turned without a sound and took a few long strides out of the library. Remus followed.

Sirius led them upstairs and through a long corridor, recently cleaned and repainted into neutral colours. Remus easily recognized the wing full of bedrooms as they passed Harry’s room and entered through the door at the end of the hall, which they had warded off a few exhausting days earlier. Remus knew that whatever was going to transpire in Walburga Black’s old bedroom, Harry would not be woken up. The wards in Sirius’ new duelling room stood strong.

‘We are both at fault, Moony’, Sirius said, turning to Remus. He looked tense, as if ready to spring at Remus and fight. ‘Me, for letting Hagrid take Harry from me so I could hunt Wormtail down. I paid for it. Twelve bloody years in Azkaban, Remus, wondering what I could have done differently, what I should have done. Harry paid for it, too. The thing is, he shouldn’t have, and we both know it, and maybe he’d have paid less if you bothered to check up on him once in a blue moon! Merlin’s beard, Remus, do not tell me that you simply believed Dumbledore and didn’t wonder about your best friend’s son himself. The wards at his aunt’s may have kept you from entering the house for a few years, but we both know they are failing. And anyway, why didn’t you visit him at school or somewhere? Don’t tell me it was too difficult’, Sirius spat out bitterly. ‘We used to pull pranks harder than that in our third year’.

Remus kept himself from interjecting, watching as Sirius paced, his magic electrifying the air.

‘And then at Hogwarts, Remus, you had a year! _A year_ , and you did nothing. Professionalism be damned, Remus, you knew you were as good as his godfather and you walked away as if it never mattered. What would James say now, Remus? And _Lily?_ ’, Sirius bellowed, walking closer.

Remus, inadvertently, took a step back. He didn’t get a chance to speak before the beam of energy from his friend’s fingers travelled up and straight, aiming for his head. Remus ducked, grasping his own wand and aiming a clear, potent Protego between him and Sirius.

Sirius did not stop, as if he couldn’t see it, attacking it not even with spells but pouring sheer power against the shield. Remus knew it would not hold for long. Sirius was always stronger than him, and faster, but it was Remus who now wielded a wand, and it was Remus who had practiced magic freely for the last thirteen years, and it was Remus who was close to his transformation in two nights and his patience was running thin.

It was Remus who had been inventing his own spells.

He erected another shield behind the weakened Protego, and chanted in Latin. His spell had not been perfected yet – Remus was still working on shortening the incantation. But he knew it would work.

‘... _Ferrum Magnum!’_. A whisp of iron travelled down his down, piercing through the shield like a spear, winding around Sirius like a black snake. With an angry spat of his hand, Sirius tried to set it on fire, but the ghosting iron only grew warmer. Distracted, Sirius cast a Cooling Spell, and Remus used the break in the attacks to drop his shields and immobilise Sirius with a nonverbal Petrificus Totalus.

Defeated by a first year spell. He will never let Sirius live it down.

Sirius stood still like a statue, only his eyes, dark with  fury, followed Remus. The iron snake was called off with a simple word, leaving only an ugly burn that torched Sirius’ robes and his skin. Remus cast a few healing spells – not his specialty, but he knew enough to stop the pain – and looked straight into his friend’s stormy eyes.

‘I know I’ve failed Harry, Pads’, Remus said quietly. ‘At first I was too weak to cope with my own grief. Then weeks went on, Dumbledore insisted that Harry was doing fine, the wards held me off, and Harry was not yet of age to go to school. I didn’t know how to contact him and decided to wait.

I went to France then, and when I returned after a few years, I thought about contacting Harry. But it seemed awkward now – what do I tell him if he asks why I never talked to him? I wrote him letters and sent only one of them, by Muggle post. I never knew if he read it’, Remus confessed thoughtfully. ‘There was no reply’.

Remus still looked into his friend’s eyes, trying to convey what he meant. Around them, the wards calmed, rebuilding themselves after the heavy attack of magic.

‘I sent a few letters when Harry was old enough to go to Hogwarts, but I’ve assumed Dumbledore put a screening ward on his mail and my letters couldn’t get through. I never got any post from him, and only sent a few pictures of Lily and James through Hagrid when he asked about them’.

‘And then, I hoped to reconnect with him when I got the job at Hogwarts. He was so small, Sirius, smaller than James had ever been, smaller than Lily. But then Dumbledore advised me against befriending him – not professional, he said, against the school rules. And to be fair, I was ashamed. What could I say to him? My previous attempts to contact him were clearly not enough. I knew there was nothing I could say. He deserved better than somebody who would be in his life only when it was convenient’.

He didn’t say _Harry deserved better than to have a werewolf_. They both knew he thought it.

Remus broke off the spell. Sirius moved, carefully, but paying no mind to his injury.

‘He didn’t have anybody, Remus’, he said quietly. ‘He wouldn’t have looked at this the same way you do. He didn’t have anybody’, he repeated, his voice shaking.

Remus met his eyes one last time, defeated.

‘He has you now’.

 

***

 

Harry woke up early, soon after dawn painted bright shapes on the walls of his new bedroom. Unused to laying in, he soon padded to the wardrobe to pick up some clothes – and wasn’t it strange that Sirius decided to give him even more things? – and lazily went to the bathroom, and then to the kitchen, downstairs.

He thought maybe he could ask Kreacher to help with the breakfast, as a thank-you to Sirius – and Lupin too, he supposed, although it was still weird to think about the Professor as somebody who supposedly had been his parents’ best friend.

The kitchen was not empty. Lupin sat there at the table, a small book in hand, a cup of tea in front of him. His face seemed weary, as if he hadn’t slept at all last night. Harry thought that maybe it was full moon soon.

‘Hello, Harry’, Lupin said, quite warmly, putting the book down. ‘Would you like some breakfast?’

Harry fidgeted.

‘I’ve been meaning to cook some for us all, actually’, he said.

Lupin nodded.

‘How about I help you then, Harry? We can give Kreacher a morning off’.

Harry nodded, unsure. Lupin moved to the stove with an ease of somebody who had to cook his own meals without any help from House Elves. Harry joined him, a bit wary. Lupin seemed a bit distant, still, but perfectly kind.

‘Are you feeling well, Professor?’, Harry asked, because the man did look pale and because it was a polite thing to ask somebody who was your godfather’s best friend, or so he assumed.

‘Yes, Harry, thank you’, Lupin said. His amber eyes warmed a bit. ‘And you? You haven’t had the most peaceful month’.

Harry shrugged. He realized Lupin expected an honest answer, his face expectant and – hopeful? Harry thought that they needed to talk, and maybe it was better to talk now.

‘I’ll be fine’, he said. ‘It’s just different, this summer’.

 

When Sirius found them half an hour later, woken up by the smell of pancakes, Harry felt more at ease around Professor Lupin than before.

Harry thought he really could get used to that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HD_80606_and_HD_80607) is more information about the astronomy trivia Sirius mentioned.   
>  I'm posting a bit later than expected but hopefully there's going to be one more update by the end of the week.


	11. Chapter 11

 

The smear campaign had really started days before Remus noticed it. At first it was so easy to miss it – seemingly innocent remarks here and there, printed letters penned by anonymous witches with just a tiny shadow of shade, and even main articles written in the _Prophet_  - if written by Rita Skeeter, everything that was scandalous would be exploited, of that Remus had no doubt.

And after all, they had assumed that it would be happening. Sirius had been sure that his reputation would be too tempting not to be discussed in this, and his social status would make it too exotic for the story not to be printed over and over again, with more and more lies being created about it.

But Remus hadn’t anticipated the way it would be played out. He assumed that the newspapers would focus on the scandal, move on to the political side of it, and turn Sirius into a Byronic hero, after which they would both use it to their advantage to swoon the public to their side once the time came to get involved in the politics.  And yet so far, only _Witch Weekly_ did react according to what Remus had predicted – Sirius had been painted as a misunderstood romantic figure, and to be honest, Remus could even see why.

Oh, he was _so_ keeping these articles cut out for future blackmail material.

Still, _Witch Weekly_ so far had been the only one to do so. Instead, all the newspapers Remus had been reading so religiously printed an avalanche of subtle – at first – and not so subtle – later – accusations against Sirius. Remus finally noticed it this morning when the glaring headline of the _Prophet_ warned every customer of the Leaking Cauldron that Sirius may be an impostor.

Remus thought they were all so stupid. His shopping put aside – and wasn’t it dangerous, with the full moon approaching and painkilling potions needed afterwards? – he hurried to buy all the newspapers he could find, apparated back to Grimmauld Place, fixed himself a cuppa – he was so agitated – and dropped all the magazines on the kitchen floor, spreading them like a paper carpet, marking patterns, highlighting vocabulary, and becoming more and more enraged.

‘So you’ve caught that, too’.

Leaning on the doorframe, Sirius was looking darkly at the mess on the floor. He appeared to be more annoyed with the state of the floor than with Remus’ discovery.

‘You knew’, Remus said, hotly. ‘And you didn’t tell me? Siri, this is important! Merlin, we could’ve reacted somehow, I don’t know...’

Sirius laughed heartily. Remus stopped, unsure whether his friend was having another of his post-Azkaban breakdowns; but no, he seemed to be, in fact, amused.

‘Moony’, he said, gleefully. ‘I may be a Gryffindor at heart, but I was raised Slytherin. I know how this game is played’.

He walked to the table, unmindful of the papers, and sat down confidently. For a moment, he looked so much like the Sirius Remus remembered that Remus stopped thinking.

‘I keep forgetting’, he said, ‘that you’re not the Sirius I once knew. That Sirius would never willingly embrace anything his family was proud of’.

Sirius started to shrug and froze halfway, as if remembering that a proper Wizard should not do so.

‘I have a role to play now’, he said. ‘I have Harry’.

 

***

 

‘So, Sirius thinks that the Malfoys are behind it’, Remus related two hours later, pacing in Andrea’s office. He knew he was agitated. With the full moon so close, it was difficult for him to control his emotions. Stoically, Andrea didn’t seem to mind. She looked curious, sitting calmly, one hand on her belly, the other fiddling with her wand.

‘How can he be so sure?’, she asked. ‘It’s not that you can catch them red-handed, Remy.

‘Sirius says that they must be feeling threatened now that he’s back because this means little Draco is not going to be named his heir, and they know it. Also, the only newspapers in which the articles are not appearing are those Malfoy doesn’t have any shares in – _Witch Weekly_ and _The Quibbler_ ’.

‘This can still be a coincidence, Remus’, Andrea remarked. ‘Although, yes, I’m beginning to agree with you’.

‘They’re all pre-written, Andy. I’ve analysed the vocabulary. The syntax is similar, too, in all of them, as if the same person was writing. And guess which family gave their children a course in political manipulation even before their first year at Hogwarts? The Blacks. I bet it’s Narcissa’s doing’.

‘So why didn’t Sirius warn us, then?’, Andrea frowned. She got up carefully and walked past Remus, to the window.

Remus sighed, exasperated, and repeated something he’d heard at least three times that morning.

‘He says he knew it was about to happen and it’s easier to let Narcissa think he’s unaware of what they’re doing’.

Andrea hummed. ‘He may be right, actually. Does he have a plan then?’

Remus rolled his eyes.

‘Apparently so. Only he’s being a stubborn arse and doesn’t want to tell me. He says I’m not calm enough. Calm! Says the man who’s got the shortest temper I know’.

Andrea shook her head.

‘He may be right’, she repeated. ‘Let’s go, Remus. Harry’s in the garden. You said you wanted to meet him?’.

 

***

 

Ernie was an abysmal Quidditch player.

Of course, Harry would never say it to his face, but that was the truth and they both knew it. They had tried to play, and Susan suggested Quidditch when it turned out that while she had some topics in common with both Harry and Ernie, it was increasingly awkward as both of the boys found very few things to talk about. Ernie looked as if he wanted to be elsewhere, still acutely aware of his accusations from the second year. Harry didn’t say that if he held it against everybody who had been saying such things, he wouldn’t be on speaking terms with the majority of their school. And so Susan, after a few minutes of stiff conversation that reminded Harry of Aunt Petunia’s pompous parties, declared they should have one on one Quidditch matches, with one of them playing the referee. Harry happily agreed. More flying meant less talking.

And now he was twelve feet up in the air, torn between beating Ernie to the snitch, which he had spotted moment before, or pretending he didn’t see anything to save Ernie’s dignity. Unfortunately, the other boy seemed to be aware that Harry was holding back anyway. Harry sighed and dived in, Mr Macmillan’s old Sweeper so much slower than his Firebolt, and caught the snitch.

Ernie landed with obvious relief.

‘Nice one, Potter’, he said.

Susan beamed at them both, obviously thankful the game was over. Harry thought she looked both grateful and guilty – obviously she hadn’t predicted Ernie’s discomfort when she suggested the game.

‘My turn now, alright?’, she said, and jumped on Ernie’s broom. She was a more competent flier, obviously feeling confident in the air, but she was nowhere near Harry’s level and they both knew it. Harry caught the snitch again, but this time Susan chased him cheerfully, laughing with joy.

‘You could get into the team if you wanted’, Harry told her later. She smiled thankfully.

‘I was thinking about it’, she said. ‘But my aunt said it would be better for me to try next year, only she didn’t say why’.

‘I think you’re good enough to try out now’, Harry  replied truthfully. She needed more practice but she could get there.

Susan dropped to the ground. ‘Thanks, Harry’, she said. ‘But I think I’ll head Aunt Amelia’s advice. I’ll try next year if I’m still into it. And by the way, thanks for not being a complete arse to Ernie. He’s trying’.

Harry shook his head.

‘Not a problem’, he said. ‘I’m trying, too’.

‘Are you going to play again or are we going inside now?’, Ernie asked loudly. Susan rolled her eyes fondly. This meant, clearly, that Ernie would not be forced to fly again.

‘We’re not flying’, Susan said. ‘Your mum is coming here with Professor Lupin. I don’t think they would like to join!’.

Ernie sighed, relieved.

 

***

 

_Dear Hermione_

_Hope you’re enjoying your holidays! I was talking with Lupin today and he said that if we wanted to meet up, he’d escort me to the Muggle London. We don’t think it’s safe for me now in the Wizarding World – the newspapers are following Sirius’ case very closely and not all of the journalists are very friendly. So Lupin wants me out of the spotlight. I think he’d make me stay with the Dursleys the whole summer if they weren’t so terrible and if he wasn’t worried that Aunt Petunia would invite the journalists over if she thought she could get some attention of out it._

_But they’re not going to lurk in the Muggle world, aren’t they? It would be great to meet up now that you’re back home. I wanna know everything about your trip, and I need to tell you about my summer too._

_To be honest, Mione, I need some advice. It’s great I can talk with Sirius but it’s not the same when I want to talk about him. I think Sirius and Lupin want me to spend some time with people my age – can you believe I was staying at Ernie’s? His mum is friends with Lupin. But you know it’s not the same and I’d prefer to spend some time with you and Ron, too._

_Thanks for the books – I’ve read only a few chapters but they’re interesting enough. Lupin wants to discuss them with me. I’m kinda blaming you here – not sure I’ll have anything to discuss with him!_

_Take care,_

_Harry_

_Dear Harry,_

_I think it’s a wonderful idea to meet in a non-magical area. I’ve discussed it with my parents and we would like to invite you and Professor Lupin over to our house if you’re amenable. The date is at your convenience, although I think it would have to be either later today in the evening or after the full moon unless there is somebody else accompanying you._

_I was thinking of inviting Ron, as well, especially since he had never seen a Muggle house before and it could be so interesting for him!_

_Please let me know what you think as soon as possible, especially if you’re planning to visit today. And do you think I could write Professor Lupin to discuss the books with him, too?_

_Yours,_

_Hermione_

_Blimey, mate! What’s up with the visit at Hermione’s? Dad’s completely bonkers – he’s been running around shouting about his dream coming true. He’s gonna drop me by, couldn’t be persuaded otherwise. Now I can see how he’s related to Fred and George, really. Anyway he’s making a list of questions to ask so he doesn’t forget anything and do you know what are bullet pens?_

_Anyway dad said he can pick you up instead of Lupin if you want. I think he can’t pass up the chance to see two Muggle homes in one days.  We’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon if you’re okay with that._

_See you soon!_

 

_Ron_

 

***

 

Harry didn’t mention to Aunt Petunia that there was going to be a wizard on her doorstep. It was easier to pretend to be surprised than listen to her vocal disapproval, and certainly it was safer not to say anything to Uncle Vernon. He focused on avoiding Dudley the whole morning until the other boy got bored and decided to watch TV, and then Harry worked in the garden, silently contemplating what kind of a sacrifice he could offer during lunch.

Sirius had given him a few tips. It was possible to offer your anger, or hate, or even love. This would not mean magic would spirit away all the feelings you had, but it would dim them enough for you to focus clearly on something that would cloud your judgement. The moment of clarity never lasted forever, though. Harry still looked foreward to it, even as Sirius had warned him not to be too hasty.

‘You have to offer something with the right intention in mind, Harry. If you offer your hate because you want to be a better person, do it. If you offer your hate in ill will so you can hurt somebody, don’t. There’s a thin line between light and dark magic, kiddo. The Færeld can be so easily used for wrong purposes’.

And so Harry offered his uncertainty. For a moment, he felt so much calmer. Disappeared his worries that Sirius wouldn’t get his name cleared, and that Harry wouldn’t not be good enough for him, and that Lupin was going to walk away, and even that the press would follow him everywhere, even in the Muggle London. For a moment, he felt so much brighter.

‘Boy, the door!’.

Then he didn’t.

 

***

 

Either Mr Weasley had brushed up on his Muggle fashion, or Hermione must have sent him instructions how to dress properly. He donned a simple brown suit which made him look like a middle-aged college professor who was too excited about his subject – a bit like Lupin, really, only with a more obsessive glint in his eyes that suggested that he could barely contain his excitement.

Ron, both curious and little bored, looked like a typical Muggle teenager, other than the wand tucked carelessly into his jeans pocket.

‘Hey, mate’, he grinned before his father had a chance to say hello. ‘Let’s get out of here, I’m starving!’.

‘Ron’, Mr Weasley sighed. ‘Hello, Harry. Are your aunt and uncle around? I’d love to have a chat with them’.

‘Er... I’m not sure it would be a good idea, Mr Weasley’, Harry said quickly. ‘My aunt, you see, she’s a bit of a....’

‘I’m a bit of what?’, a  cold voice interjected. Aunt Petunia, in her pale blue summer dress, looked like the epitome of winter.  ‘I don’t think we know each other’, she observed.

‘Arthur Weasley, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Dursley’, Mr Weasley said enthusiastically, almost bouncing on his feet. Ron rolled his eyes not that subtly and Aunt Petunia took it all in very coldly. ‘Ron here is my youngest son and Harry’s best friend’.

Aunt Petunia’s eyes grew colder and smaller as she looked at Harry.

‘I wasn’t aware you were inviting your.... friends.... over now’, she hissed. ‘What is the meaning of it?’

‘I’m not’, Harry denier quickly. ‘In fact we’re just going, Aunt Petunia. To visit my friend, Hermione’, he said. ‘Her parents are dentists’.

She seemed to deflate just a bit, although Harry knew it was not over.

‘Go’, she said. ‘I trust you’re not expecting me to pick you up, boy. Don’t leave any mess when you’re on your way out’.

And she turned on her heel, back to the living room, from where she had a clear window with a perfect view of the gate, so she could watch them leave.

Mr Weasley gaped, a bit lost.

‘And that’s why there’s no point in chatting with her, Mr Weasley’, Harry said.

 

***

 

Hermione’s house was airy, spacious, and full of books. There was nothing about it that indicated the snobbishness Aunt Petunia was well known for, although the Grangers lived in a better area, the kind Aunt Petunia spoke of with a certain kind of envy.

The Grangers had a dog – something Harry had known, of course, but looking at the friendly fluffy Shih Tzu in person was different than seeing Hermione’s pictures. Harry wondered how the dog got on with Hermione’s half-Kneazle, who was nowhere in sight.

‘Don’t mind Titus’, Mrs Granger said, welcoming them in. ‘He loves meeting people’.

Already aware of the little dog’s Shakespearean name, Harry wondered what was it that made the Grangers so obsessed with the playwright. He followed in, and soon Hermione was running down the stairs and hugging him and Ron both.

‘It’s so good to see you again!’, she almost shouted over the dog’s excitable barking. ‘We have so much to talk about!’

Moments later, they sat in Hermione’s room– neat, blue, and filled with stacked bookshelves – leaving Mrs Granger to deal with Mr Weasley’s list of questions.

Hermione had dragged them up the moment she lost her mother’s attention, happy to come back downstairs when the dinner was ready. ‘She can’t expect we’re not going to catch up now’, she decided with all the force of her Gryffindor conviction.

‘So, tell us everything, Harry’, she ordered, sitting cross-legged on her bed.

And so Harry did. He skipped the bits about Sirius’ trial – they all knew about it, both the newspapers and Harry’s letters had made sure of it. Hermione seemed to be quite interested in it, always eager to discuss legal details, but Harry focused more on other things: on how Lupin was trying to befriend him, how Sirius was cool and gave him prank ideas but also how he was strict about learning Wizarding customs; on how strange it felt that maybe soon he would be able to leave Privet Drive for good. He did not mention the Færeld, though – he thought Hermione would explode with questions and disapprove of his experiments with magic on his own, and Ron... who knew what he’d say?

‘Merlin, Harry’, Ron let out when Harry finally paused. ‘It’s a hell of a summer’.

Hermione moved to pick up Crookshanks, who was balancing on a bookshelf. She passed the half-Kneazle to Harry, who held him without thinking. Crookshanks didn’t seem to mind, snuggling against Harry’s arm lazily.

‘You’re looking like you need to hug a cat, Harry’, Hermione said matter-of-factly.

‘Are we doing anything about it?’, Ron asked, fishing chocolate frogs out of his pockets and throwing them at his friends.  Hermione caught hers with difficulty and then raised her eyebrows. ‘Bottomless Charm’, Ron explained with a shrug. ‘I told Percy I needed to observe his superb wand technique and maybe he could demonstrate’.

Harry snickered, opening his own passage. ‘I bet he was delighted. But no, Ron, we’re not doing anything. We can’t really do anything, can we?’

‘It’s going to be all right, Harry’, Hermione said. Harry thought the words were an empty things you said when you had nothing else to tell somebody, but Hermione meant it and they all knew it. ‘They want to be your family. Let them in’.

‘It sucks though, mate’, Ron warned. He has chocolate smudges on his face. ‘Curfew all the time and you need to clean your room’.

Harry thought that Sirius’ bedroom must be messier than his own.

‘Honestly, Ron. Do you have to eat so many sweets now? We’re about to come downstairs to have a proper meal. And Harry doesn’t think that way, do you, Harry?’

Harry smiled. ‘I think it sounds perfect’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a bit longer than planned, but I'm back with a new chapter! Anf finally introducing Ron and Hermione in person. It felt weird writing a HP fic without them in Harry's life. They're going to be a bit more visible from now on.   
> Hope you enjoyed it!


	12. Chapter 12

 

_DUMBLEDORE DEFENDS BLACK_

_After his appearance at yesterday’s Wizengamot session, the famed Chief Walrock took the opportunity to publicly express his doubts about Sirius Black’s guilt of betraying the Potters and of murdering twelve Muggles._

_‘I believe that the Wizengamot would do right to listen to Mr Black’s confession before accusing him of any crimes’, he commented. ‘It is every person’s right to receive a fair trial. As far as I see it, Mr Black is not guilty until proven otherwise’._

_Unfortunately, Chief Warlock decided not to elaborate and refused to comment further. Dumbledore, who will turn 113 this summer, has previously released a similar statement regarding Hogwarts’ current Potion Master, Severus Snape, a former Death Eater._

_The Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge, also present at the session, was quoted saying that Mr Black’s trial is a necessity._

_‘Black has to be given a trial’, the Minister acknowledged. ‘Everybody deserves their peace of mind’._

_It is unlear to us at the_ Prophet _whose peace of mind the Minister was referring to – his own, the Wizarding Britain’s, or the notorious Mr Black’s._

‘This is disgusting’, Hermione Granger hissed, and threw the newspaper on the table.

‘It’s politics, darling’, her grandmother retorted, calm as ever and brushing her silver hair. At first, Hermione was fooled into thinking that she hadn’t aged a day since their last meeting the previous summer. Hermione regretted a bit not going home for Christmas last year and missing her grandmother’s soothing presence. Barbara Granger, with her nerves of steel and heart of gold, was the person Hermione always missed most.

Her flat in Islington, smelling faintly of perfume, had been Hermione’s favourite place on earth before she crossed the gates of Hogwarts. Staying there felt to Hermione better even than reading _A Christmas Carol_ on a winter morning.

‘It’s politics’, her grandmother repeated, giving herself a serious look in the mirror. Her hair, now in an elegant bun, was sleeker than Hermione could ever dream of. ‘And politics is always disgusting. That’s why smart people stay away from it and the world has such awful politicians’.

Hermione personally was sure that if her grandmother – one of the cleverest people she knew – ever got elected as the Minister of Magic, she’d outsmart even Dumbledore, magic or not. But she also knew that it would never happen – not because Barbara Granger didn’t have a drop of magic with her, but because she considered politics to be too underhanded.

‘But that headmaster of your is right, darling’, she continued, linking her eyes with Hermione’s in the mirror. Hermione was curled in an armchair comfortably, observing her grandmother’s simple routines. ‘Everybody deserves fairness. It’s a pity that so few people get it’.

‘I’m worried about Harry’, Hermione confessed. ‘He always takes everything in his stride but this is so new to him’.

Barbara stood up and sat in front of Hermione on the edge of her bed. Her eyes, keen and brown and framed by delicate wrinkles, were warmer than chocolate.

‘He has people who care for him, Hermione. Including you. He’s not going to deal with anything on his own’, she said.  ‘And he knows you’re a loyal friend’.

Hermione smiled. Her grandmother nodded to herself.

‘And now’, she said resolutely. ‘I’ve only got my favourite granddaughter here for two days. You need to tell me everything new about that school of yours. I was thinking of making a donation of bullet pens in September. It’s preposterous that you have to practice with quills, of all things, and children from non-magical families like you are at a disadvantage when they start their education!’.

 

***

 

It was a warm night, although starless. Narcissa gazed at her garden, barely visible in dark shadows. The grass she passed by was wet with dew, which Narcissa thought repulsive, but at the same time the nightfall soothed her soul. Her magic, too hot and impulsive, pulsed with anger, as if it had been she, and not her abhorrent cousin, who got sorted into Gryffindor.

Draco was sleeping there, in the manor, a perfect image of a Pureblood and yet without a drop of any political skill. Narcissa had hoped to use him to win Sirius over, but her son was too obvious in his dislike of the Potter boy. Lucius was still willing to use Draco, but Narcissa, reluctantly, was not. He could endanger their family’s standing and she didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks.

His training really should progress more smoothly, she thought. They had alliances in mind that could be conveniently made during the Triwizard Tournament. She knew that all families that had any sense would prepare their children for what she was preparing Draco for. She also knew that not all of the children were not as surprisingly inept as her own son was.

A pity, she thought. He had such a great potential.

‘Is it so pleasant to walk here at night?’, her husband’s silky voice interrupted her thoughts. She turned to him and accepted an outer robe he summoned for her without words.

‘It’s not’, she answered. ‘But I was thinking’.

They had been married for so long that he didn’t need to ask her to elaborate.

‘Any progress, Cissa?’, he asked instead.

‘Azalea Greengrass is keen on letting Sirius rot in his cell’, Narcissa reported with a vicious kind of satisfaction.  She did not mention that Azalea had every intention of making one of her daughters a future Lady Malfoy. Lucius had probably figured so himself, but a Greengrass bride seemed like a poor match. There had been rumours for the last year that Azalea’s sister had been admitted to St. Mungo’s following a spectacular lost of control over her Færeld.

‘Her husband is on the fence, unfortunately’, Lucius said. ‘Who would have thought the man had _morals_ ’.

‘He didn’t take the money?’, Narcissa asked, warily.

‘No’, Lucius curled his lips in disgust.

Narcissa nodded to herself gravely.

‘They have two daughters they need to marry off’, she caid cautiously. ‘They want to play it carefully’.

‘If one of them can’t be named Malfoy-Black, then maybe one can be a Malfoy and the other a Black’, Lucius confirmed, mirthlessly. ‘It does not matter now. Rowle, Travers and Flint are on our side, as is Bulstrode and perhaps Crouch. It does not look well for him either way’, Lucius murmured. He started walking back towards the manor. Narcissa followed, quietly. Crouch was the one responsible for the trials after the war. He made a very convenient scapegoat.

‘And we may have an unlikely supporter’, he said suddenly. ‘Madame Longbottom is set dead against the House of Black’.

***

 

_Dearest Cousin,_

_It is with great satisfaction that I learnt about your approaching trial. Be_ _ensured that I will do what I can to support the House of Black in this difficult situation. I may carry a different name now, but I shall always remain a Black, and have made sure not to forget my roots. I have passed our heritage to my son, Draco, as well, and he is embracing it as well as it can be expected. He has given us many reasons to be proud of him over the years. Once the trial is over, we would love to strengthen our family links again, dear Cousin, so Draco can meet a family member he could never know._

_I offer you my greatest sympathy and wishes of good fortune, and remain most anxious to hear the results of your trial._

_With kindest regards,_

_Narcissa Malfoy nee Black_

‘You know, she may have not even lied’, Sirius remarked dryly. Andrea’s head in the fireplace shook with silent laughter. They were supposed to discuss their final preparations for the trial, but Sirius seemed to be rather taken with his cousin’s obviously flattery manner of writing, and spent a long moment ridiculing every sentence.

‘I have my doubts about the first sentence’, she said.

Sirius thought otherwise. ‘Oh, she’s as happy as ever to plot her way into more riches’, he decided. ‘She loves power and she knows how to play to get it. She opted not to use her title as if to downplay her motive to write me. Of course she’d try’.

‘Are you going to reply?’, Andrea asked. ‘It would be seen as rude not to’.

‘Of course’, Sirius confirmed. ‘I’ll reassure her of my delight that a long-lost relative has contacted me, express my joy that her son is growing well, damn him for fighting with Harry so, and then she is going to write me after the trial, once my name is cleared and her hopes for an easy way out of the mess are lost’.

‘You play this well, too’, Andrea said.

‘You learn this game to survive in a house full of snakes’, Sirius replied evenly. ‘You have to bite them back somehow’.

 

***

 

Andrea stood up slowly and made a few circles with her head. Floo travel was beginning to exhaust her; soon her pregnant body would protest loudly against her sticking her head in the flames. Under other circumstances, she was quite fond of this form of travel – it was fun and fast and she appreciated both – but during her pregnancies it reminded her of hell.

Not that she ever visited hell, although she fancied an opinion that it would resemble an infinite number of old Purebloods set in their ways and turned against her.

Andrea passionately hated bigots.

Feeling better, she walked to the living room, where her husband was waiting for her. He looked as tired as she felt. Andrea thankfully snuggled close to him, stretching her aching feet on the sofa. Indulgently, Tony waved his wand and her shoes vanished.

‘How did it go?’, he asked.

‘Quite alright’, Andrea replied briefly. ‘Sirius is as ready as he can be’.

‘And are you?’, Tony inquired softly.

‘It’s my biggest case’, Andrea said. ‘I’ve been waiting for something exciting, to be honest’.

Tony laughed. ‘Only you could call tones of paperwork exciting’.

‘I’m a Claw, what do you expect?’, Andrea smiled. ‘You know, the meeting with Sirius confirmed what we suspected. The Malfoys are on it’.

Tony sighed. He rubbed her growing belly lazily.

‘I’ve had meetings with a number of people, Andy’, he said. ‘And you know it. Some of them hate Malfoy and the Ministry more than they hate Black, especially since he may be innocent. I’m fairly sure that we can out-play the Malfoys’.

‘How did your tea with Griselda go?’, Andy wanted to know. The old Lady Marchbanks was a staunch supporter of the Light, and if she could be convinced that Sirius was on their side... ‘I’m rather curious’.

‘She cursed the Ministry a lot’, Anthony replied, a ghost of a smirk in his voice. ‘A lot of people have noticed the aggressive attitude of the press, and some of them have noticed also that it was Lucius Malfoy who bought a lot of shares not so long ago. It is rather easy to connect the dots’.

‘Ah. That explains it’, Andrea decided. She hated the fact that it was all so dirty – it felt wrong that her husband would convince people of Sirius’ innocence before the trial. And yet she knew that many Purebloods would vote against Sirius just because Lucius Malfoy would tell them so, Black’s confession or not. Andrea was supposed to defend Sirius, and if the Ministry played dirty, so would she, even if she felt disgusted with herself afterwards.

So they did it subtly – no bribes, no charms, no potions, just testing the waters so she could prepare more efficiently and act accordingly. Research, after all, was not forbidden.

Things did not look so well, but they were not hopeless either, and Andrea loved a challenge.

 

***

 

Harry loved the garden at Grimmauld Place. To enter it, you had to go through a secret entrance – and Harry still loved secret entrances, even a few years after his introduction to magic. He took a great delight in sneaking through an ancient oak wardrobe in the hall into a mysterious place full of colourful magical plants. Harry thought Neville would love to explore the garden.

Sirius explained it had been charmed to suit all kinds of herbs and rare greenery; vines dark like malachite climbing trees whose bark glimmered in golden hues, orange and blue flowers that were spread upon the grass like a flying carpet but spat venom at you if you tried to cut them. Sirius and Lupin had thrown away the most poisonous of the plants, but left a huge number of them – for protection, or so they claimed – and Harry had been ordered to memorize the dangerous ones and stay clear of them. Harry was beginning to suspect his Herbology grade would be higher next year.

And in the middle of it, on the clearing of grass that was the most ordinary part of the enchanted garden, Sirius transfigured two chairs and a table where they now sat. Harry had been brought here by Mrs Macmillan, of whom Aunt Petunia was terrified but tried not to show it.  Kreacher appeared with snacks – including a plate of cookies Harry had baked earlier in a futile attempt to convince Sirius that knowing your way around the kitchen was a sensible thing to do even with a House Elf in residence – and left silently. Sirius waited, unusually calm, until the elf was gone, and then he gave Harry a crash course in Wizarding table manners.

Harry, whose education in this regard had been limited to observing how Aunt Petunia contorted her pinky finger while drinking tea, and who had been lectured by Hermione a few times by extention while she lectured Ron, felt a bit lost. Sirius sighed and repeated the lecture again, this time slower, although interrupting once when a tentacle-like long leaf tried to eat his trousers.

‘Better’, Sirius declared then cheerfully. ‘We’re going to work on that later. Now, let’s move to greetings’.

Harry sighed.

Two hours and two plates of cookies later, Sirius declared it was time for late lunch, during which he tested Harry’s newly acquired skills. After Harry mistook two forks and only once forgot not to put his elbows on the table, Sirius declared it a moderate win that should be celebrated with a dessert and a lecture on Harry’s behaviour at the Ministry of Magic.

‘I’ll never get the hang of it’, Harry complained. ‘I’m not Hermione’.

Sirius let magic pop out of his fingers as he threw a ball of gold at the flower which tried to eat him again.  The flower burnt to a crisp. Sirius made a face at it. He seemed to be enjoying the open space of the garden.

‘Of course you’re not Hermione’, he said. ‘You’re Harry. My godson. These things take time and you’ll have all the time you want to perfect it for the trial. You need the basics now, Harry’.

Harry looked at him doubtfully.

‘You’re saying that because you don’t want me to panic at the Ministry’.

‘No’, Sirius said. ‘I’m saying that because I believe you can do it. You’ve faced a hundred of Dementors, Harry. You can survive one stupid Minister of Magic’.

 

***

 

They met in a Muggle tea shop in Edinburgh. The city itself hummed with old magic, but when they sat in the modern place, bustling with people and flickering with the sharpness of glass decorations, Andromeda Tonks experienced a sense of exoticism. Even after years of frequenting Muggle areas, some impressions never got old.

A bit sleepily, she relaxed against her chair. Her dress – dark, modest, and a bit old-fashioned for any Muggle who would care to look at her – had nothing magical in it. Andromeda did her best to blend in, and nobody could say she hadn’t had enough practice.

Still, the decor of the tea shop made her feel as if she stepped in into an magical place of a different kind. Even Ted’s hippie tendencies from the past did not shake the feeling off, and her own extremely conservative upbringing did not help either. Andromeda sipped her tea stoically, though, a bit amused at her own reaction.

‘I adore this place!’, Caroline exclaimed empathically the moment she entered. Her clothes, flattering and obviously Muggle in origin, looked fresh and pristine even on such a hot summer day – Andromeda suspected a few charms must have come in handy; her blond hair, though, was twisted in a complicated updo that Andromeda would have found in _Witch Weekly_ if she bothered to read it. Caroline’s frame seemed fragile and diminutive without her usual robes, but Andromeda was aware there was nothing frail about her friend.

Caroline Brown cherished all kinds of experiences – she knew more about magic than Andromeda could ever hope to learn, kept up with Muggle novelties and Wizarding politics, and advocated for introducing new ice cream flavours to Florian Fortescue’s ice cream repertoire. Her personality, a bit too boisterous for Andromeda’s liking, made their friendship a bit unlikely; Caroline resembled Andromeda’s daughter more than Andromeda herself. But they both knew their friendship had their uses; Caroline used Andromeda as her contact to some of the darker families who opposed Caroline’s views but did not cease any contact with Andromeda because a Black by blood was still a Black, Muggle lover or not; and Andromeda persuaded her friend, who was much more politically active – at least officially – to advocate publicly for some changes in the Wizarding World that Andromeda would welcome to embrace.

‘I could say I appreciate their tea’, Andromeda allowed, ‘but not their taste in music. Really, Caroline, pop? Even you have more sense than that’.

‘It’s not that bad when you get used to it’, Caroline defended. ‘My daughter loves it. We come here from time to time’.

Andromeda had figured so – the Browns lived in Edinburgh – so she said nothing.

‘I guess at least nobody will suspect that we frequent this place’, she told her friend cheerfully. Caroline beamed.

‘Exactly!’, she exclaimed loudly. ‘And I have a lot to tell you, Annie’, Caroline leaned in conspirationally, holding her teacup in both of her hands. ‘By now about twenty Wizengamot families have been approached by either Lucius or Narcissa. All of them are either their open allies, have financial difficulties or can be otherwise easily persuaded to support the Malfoys’ agenda. Most of them have decided to stand with Lucius, although Lord Greengrass refused’.

‘Oh, I know that’, Andromeda said lightly. ‘Azalea Greengrass is an acquaintance of mine. When we were at Hogwarts, Narcissa and Bella got in trouble and tried to put a blame on her. She’s despised Narcissa ever since’.

‘So that’s why’, Caroline whispered wonderingly. ‘And here I thought they treated to play their own game and gain something. Probably a marriage agreement’.

Andromeda laughed openly. ‘Oh, no. Azalea would never force their daughters to marry. But she’s happy to preoccupy the Malfoys so they can’t focus on other families. Regardless of how her husband votes, it’s going to be his own decision and not one that Lucius can make for him’.

Caroline nodded, satisfied. She procured a Muggle envelope and slid it down the table to Andromeda.

‘Here, Annie. Inside there’s a list of all the families who oppose the Malfoys and are going to vote objectively, depending on the result of the Veritaserum hearing. I think you may know some people who would enjoy taking a look at it’.

Andromeda read it carefully.

‘Not a majority’, she said. ‘But it’s close’.

Caroline sighed. ‘With some people you never know. Augusta Longbottom, for example. Is she going to vote against the House of Black because of the attack on her son? Or is she going to vote for the truth? She’s scary, that one’.

Andromeda nodded. She never managed to establish a working relationship with the elderly lady. ‘She’s a Hufflepuff. Loyal to a fault’.

‘Loyal to her son’, Caroline sighed again. ‘Nevermind, Annie. I’ll do what I can. I’ll leave the list in your hands. Need to dash now, I’ve got some things to take care of at the _Prophet_ ’.

Andromeda watched her go, feeling almost light-hearted. Her head was buzzing with new information. Now she knew how to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The trial is coming! I'm hoping I can update next weekend, although no promises. Can't wait to finally start writing it.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the trial.

The Ministry smelt of magic. Remus walked briskly past the awful monument in the atrium – he thought its picture should be added to encyclopaedias next to a definition of “kitsch” – and nodded politely to those few wizards and witches who acknowledged him. He had no delusions to think he was important enough to be seen, not in his tattered brown robes.

Sirius, of course, had offered to get him better ones, but Remus would not be risking any questions, not today. He didn’t want to be forced to explain how an unemployed werewolf could afford to dress himself at Gladrags. He passed Rita Skeeter, her bug-like eyes wide-open as she eagerly noted down everything of importance. Remus was sure that tomorrow morning he’d found a completely fantastic report in the paper. The woman was simply incapable of honesty.

And she was bribed, perhaps, too. Lucius Malfoy approached her nonchalantly; they both ignored Remus, so he came a bit closer, trying to eavesdrop – thankfully his keen sense of hearing was better than a full human’s, one of the few blessings of his condition – but Malfoy must have cast a Muffliato. Nothing could be heard. He only smelt Rita Skeeter’s rosy perfume, mixed with her curiosity and excitement. Lucius Malfoy had no perfume on him – he was, Remus had to admit, smart enough. Death Eaters had stopped wearing scents after that ambush in 1978 in which he recognized one of them because of his cologne. Remus was still proud of that catch.

He catalogued Malfoy’s facial expressions – the man rarely gave anything away but Remus just knew how to read people – and paid attention to Skeeter’s animated gestures. He knew Malfoy would be plotting something. Sirius knew it, too, and there were very few things they could prepare against Malfoy on such a short notice. But they were nothing but effective.

Or so Remus hoped. A bit tense – the same kind of feeling he remembered from his Hogwarts days, the moments of storm before the well executed prank – he moved on, gauging people’s moods, smelling their fears. There was one older member of the Wizengamot who seemed not to have washed his official robes for at least two years. Remus wondered if the man had any house elves.

He spotted Augusta Longbottom, aloof in her dark robes, clutching her trademark red bag in pale bony fingers. Her face was emotionless as her gaze swept past Remus. He was sure she noticed him but didn’t react.

Remus suspected Sirius was a bit wary of Augusta Longbottom. He approved. This meant Sirius had some remnants of sanity left.

‘It’s quite a crowd, isn’t it?’, a voice murmured next to him. Remus, who had heard her approaching, nodded slowly.

‘I’d be surprised otherwise. And so would you, Annie’.

Andromeda Tonks linked her arm with his, steering him away from the people who gathered in the atrium and towards the lift that would carry Remus to the courtroom.

‘Indeed’, Andromeda said. She looked the epitome of calm, maneuvreuing through the crowded place with practiced ease. Remus wondered what it would be like for the House of Black hadn’t she been disowned. Annie was, in every way, a formidable witch. ‘It’s a pity I can’t go inside. Not legally, at least’, she smirked. Remus decided it was better not to know.

‘Plausible deniability, Annie’, he laughed. He long suspected that Sirius’ books on Animagi they had read in their dorm were not a result of a diligent search done by Sirius himself, but rather a gift from a more resourceful older cousin. But if Annie really was an Animagus, she kept it to herself.

She casually cast a mild Notice-Me-Not at them, making it easier to walk past the crowd. It was less obvious than a Muffliato and offered an excuse not to greet nosy Purebloods every few seconds. Remus was happy – not that he had to nod at them as much as Annie did. Even though she was disowned, she still ranked higher than Remus in their eyes.

‘I have it on good authority that a number of Malfoy’s old friends will vote against Sirius no matter what he confesses’, she said quietly. ‘They were trying to dig out whatever dirt they could. I hope your story is good, Remy‘.

Remus sighed. He detested the fact that the truth did not matter in this court. Whatever Sirius said was going to carry little weigh without the support of the Wizengamot. Sirius could be innocent and still would be found guilty. And Remus valued the truth more than he valued the Ministry. Sirius may not know it – it’s safer to keep him in the dark now, before his scheduled Veritaserum confession – but Remus had already started putting things in motion just in case Lucius Malfoy held more sway than them.

Admittedly, Andromeda and Caroline Brown had helped with that, too. Remus was sure that the Ministry was still standing simply because Andromeda was more interested in watching it crumble slowly, on its own, instead of crushing it herself overnight.

‘We suspected that’, Remus answered her belatedly, and Andromeda nodded. She knew, of course.

They walked quietly to the entrance of the courtroom. Andromeda stopped there and patted Remus’ arm.

‘Good luck there’, she said. ‘I’ll be waiting’.

 

***

 

As a witness, Remus was sat at the front, in the lower part of the spacious round chamber. The room was too dimly lit for his tastes, as if the wizards in attendance purposefully wanted it to be mysterious and domineering.

Harry was going to enter and join him soon, Remus knew. They’d decided that he’d arrive with Andrea. Sirius and Remus had spent hours teaching him how to behave, how to talk, and how to speak, and yet Harry was still apprehensive in the morning. Remus could only sympathize.

He watched as the higher levels of the chamber began to be filled with animated wizards and witches in ceremonial dark robes, appearing foreboding in the shaky light of enchanted torches. He doubted any places would be free tonight. The whole thing felt too much like a theatrical performance to him, with the round room resembling an ancient amphitheatre.

Augusta Longbottom had just reached her own seat, nodding curtly to her neighbours. He could now notice that she had her grandson with her – a modest, timid boy who Remus remembered well. Neville looked like he wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else, and Remus made an effort to offer him a smile. He was not surprised that Augusta made the Longbottom Heir go to the Ministry – she needed to teach him, after all – but her choice of making Neville witness a trial of a member of the Black family might be poignant. Remus let himself ponder about it for a while. Augusta had been petitioning to the previous Lord Black that Bellatrix should be stripped off her magic, but Sirius’ grandfather, Arcturus III, would not listen. She had no warm feelings towards the House of Black.

Lucius Malfoy was present, too, talking quietly with his associates. Remus took special care in sending him a dark look. The man looked too smug for his own good – and here Remus thought that Pureblood wizards were taught to control their emotions.

It was then that Harry entered with Andrea. She didn’t think they needed to draw attention to Harry – he’d be noticed in any case. They just walked to his seat, quietly. Remus spotted the exact moment Harry grew aware of the fact that he became recognized; his shoulders tensed a bit, but he kept his head high. Remus felt proud of him. Harry did not glance at the members of the Wizengamot; instead, he simply took his seat close to Remus, looking strangely mature in his new formal robes. Remus wished he could curse all those old wizards who kept staring at the boy.

‘Hi’, Remus said instead, turning his attention where it belonged. ‘Are you all right, Harry?’.

The boy nodded as Andrea winked and left them alone to get Sirius.

‘I just want it to be over, though’, Harry answered. Remus opened his mouth to say something comforting but then Harry continued. ‘This new robe is itching me, you see’.

They chuckled, both finding it funnier than it really was, and then the trial began.

 

***

 

Remus knew Sirius was resentful towards the man, but he was still happy they had Dumbledore on their side. The old wizard, strangely solemn in his official Wizengamot robes that lacked garish ornamentations he so favoured, looked rather intimidating. Remus glanced at Harry, who kept turning to look back at the door from which Sirius would enter. He wished the boy would stop fidgeting but he could hardly blame him. It was a relief that the press was forbidden from entering the courtroom – what they would do to both Harry and Sirius, he could only suspect. Sighing, Remus touched the boy’s arm in comfort as Dumbledore stood up. Harry’s attention focused on his headmaster and he stilled. The old wizard rose from his seat. Predictably, soon the silence fell, tense and heavy. Remus could feel his fingers go cold with fear.

Finally, he thought, it began.

‘The court is now in session’, Dumbledore announced, his voice booming, but intonation flat.

It was the first time Remus saw not a clerk, but the Chief Warlock announce the session – but it was also the first time he could see a trial of an heir of a Noble and Ancient House, and he knew that on such an occasion Dumbledore was supposed to make an exception. The tradition had not been followed diligently, and Remus noted a few faces frowning. Good, he thought. Let them think.

‘Bring the defendant in’.

Remus let his mind wander as Dumbledore announced the date in the same ceremonial tone. He turned his head to the same old oak door Harry kept glancing at before, and then it opened with a creak.

Wizards, really, Remus rolled his eyes. So smart and so clever but didn’t think to oil the hinges.

Sirius entered, Andrea and two Aurors by his side. He kept his head high and shoulders square, and walked purposefully, as if he was in the right place. And maybe he was, Remus noticed thoughtfully. It was, sometimes, so easy to forget the Pureblood training Sirius had gone through, but at the times like this the upbringing helped Sirius ooze his calm confidence. Remus wondered if his friend was in fact that composed or whether it was just a carefully crafted mask on his face, and it worried him that he couldn’t tell. Sirius was a Gryffindor, Remus knew, but every kind of courage can reach its limits.

Sirius wore conservative black robes, modest but obviously bespoke, a fact that Remus was sure would not be missed by the wizards’ eagle eyes. Remus remembered the pains he went to trying to order the robes in Paris, afraid that no tailor in Britain would agree to work for Sirius Black and keep schtum. The robes were worth it, though, and with Sirius’ face being healthier than in the pictures and with his dark hair carefully combed back, he looked the proper Pureblood, not a criminal on the loose.  He didn’t seem to mind the two Aurors guarding him, wands in hands, as he walked up to the lone chair in the centre of the room, nodded to Andrea curtly and sat down. Immediately, the Aurors took a wary stance on both of his sides and charmed chains sprang to life, shackling Sirius firmly with a sound that echoed in the silent courtroom. Immediately, voices began to murmur.

‘Silence’, Dumbledore ordered and the noise quieted down again. ‘The criminal trial of July 27th’, Dumbledore intoned again, ‘Sirius Orion Black versus the Ministry of Magic’.

Remus risked a glance at Harry. The boy was pale and still, his fingers holding tight to his chair. Remus knew Sirius had made a Faereld offering that morning and wondered whether Harry had done the same. He himself was severely tempted.

‘Interrogators’, Dumbledore continued, ‘are Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot; Cornelius Oswald Fudge, the Minister of Magic; Amelia Susan Bones,  Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Witness for the defence, Andrea Edith MacMillan, barrister’.

Remus couldn’t see it from his seat, but he was sure Andrea was barely hiding her smirk. Fudge looked sour, as if somebody gave him grapefruit juice instead of orange, and Remus spotted Lucius Malfoy sitting impassively at the back, this time giving away nothing.

Dumbledore seemed not to notice Fudge’s displeased expression. Stoically, he went on.

‘Sirius Black, the charges against you are as follows: you are accused of the betrayal of the Secret confessed to you under the Fidelius Charm and the murder of twelve Muggle bystanders and a fellow wizard Peter Pettigrew on the first of November, 1981, during which you were fully aware of their illegality and deliberately broke the law’. Dumbledore paused, taking a breath.

‘Seeing that your previous imprisonment in the fortress of Azkaban had not been preceded by a legal sentence, the Wizengamot today will not consider your escape from prison as a crime’.

At that, Remus noticed a movement. The Wizengamot was murmuring again. Augusta Longbottom remained seated, but next to Malfoy his old friend, Rowle, was rising from his seat. Dumbledore spoke again before he could be interrupted.

‘In case you are found guilty, your escape will be judged accordingly to the Wizarding Law, as an offence under paragraph K of the Decree for Wizarding Imprisonment, 1719’.

‘Objection’, Andrea spoke from her place next to Sirius. ‘The Decree for Wizarding Imprisonment does not mention anything about such an incident that it is the Ministry that does not follow the letter of law, as in the case of my client, who had been sent to Azkaban without trial. Any inquires into this matter should be dealt with during the following trial, Sirius Black versus the Ministry, scheduled in two hours, in which I hope this unfortunate matter is going to be cleared once and for all’.

‘The Ministry is not going to participate in any trial against it if Black is found guilty’, Fudge declared suddenly. Next to him, Amelia Bones rolled her eyes not so subtly. Dumbledore looked as if he was going to chime in, but Andrea beat him to it.

‘Then I will ensure that my client’s problem will be dealt with during the next session of the International Confederation of Wizards as he is being denied his rights here’, she announced calmly. ‘Chief Warlock, if you could proceed?’.

‘Thank you, Andrea’, Dumbledore’s eyes gained a shadow of their usual twinkle, and yet soon they grew more solemn as he looked down at Sirius.

‘Sirius Black, how do you plead?’

‘Not guilty’, Sirius’ voice did not shake. Next to him, Remus felt Harry’s loud intake of breath.

‘Which is why my client is willingly submitting to a questioning under Ministry-approved and publicly administered Veritaserum’, Andrea declared.

‘This is outrageous’, Cornelius Fudge complained. ‘Dumbledore, I don’t have the whole day, it is obvious this madman is lying, go on with this so I can get back to my office. Such a request should have been submitted to the Ministry early so the potion can be prepared if we’re out of stock! I don’t even know if we have it at hand’.

‘The request was sent to the Ministry appropriately early by barrister Andrea MacMillan and was granted by me, as indicated in the documents in the file in front of you’, Amelia Bones spoke dryly. ‘As I’ve just said, request granted. The Ministry’s official Potions Mistress, Euridice Slinkhard, has provided a phial of Veritaserum more than sufficient for this examination. Auror Williamson, if you’d be so kind and administer three drops to Mr Black’.

Remus watched keenly as the stern-looking Auror took a few careful steps to retrieve the potion and then approached Sirius, who opened his mouth without a word.

‘Three drops only, Williamson’, Amelia Bones reminded, as if the man was likely to give Sirius more. He nodded, waited until Sirius’ eyes got glossy, and then put the potion back to the little chest next to Madame Bones.

‘I’ll handle the questioning, if you don’t mind, Cornelius’, Bones then stepped in. Remus let out a relieved sigh. He’d be a fool to trust Fudge not to try to gain anything out of Sirius’ trial. He’d be a fool to believe the Minister would play fair.

Not that they played entirely fair, too. Remus thought it spoke a lot about their society that they had to rely on borderline illegal methods to prove a man’s innocence.

‘What’s your name?’, Bones asked and Remus’ blinked, focusing back on the trial as Sirius stated his name in a blank, monotonous voice. Bones looked pleased. She asked a few more questions to confirm his identity – Remus only partially listened, offering Harry an awkward pat on the arm instead because the boy looked on edge – and it was only when Madame Bones announced that it was in fact Sirius Orion Black that was sitting chained on the chair did the trial truly begin.

 

***

 

‘Were you the Secret Keeper of Lily and James Potters?’

‘No’.

The chamber got heavy with noise. Remus purposefully kept still, one hand on Harry’s forearm, the other on his lap. Next to him, Harry was almost jumping in his seat, eyes wandering from one wizard to another, from witch to witch, eagerly looking out for any signs of their support. Remus had known the truth, but hearing it spoken publicly for the first time, he had shivers climbing up his arms. He squeezed Harry’s shoulder briefly, knowing the boy felt the same.

‘Did you murder twelve Muggle bystanders on the first of November, 1981?’, Bones continued the questioning. Sirius maintained the same potion-induced indifference in his voice as he replied.

‘No’.

‘Did you murder Peter Pettigrew on the same night?’

‘No’, Sirius answered for the third time.

This time, there were no whispers. The chamber erupted in noise, wizards standing up from their seats and shouting angrily. Dumbledore was watching the confusion with his usual benevolent smile, as if pleased that such a prank was being played out before his eyes. Remus, instead, kept his wand at the ready, unsure whether he’d have to protect Harry or himself in case the situation went out of control.

‘I have no further questions’, Madame Bones continued, her voice all business. ‘Members of the Wizengamot, please remain seated and do not speak up unless permitted. Thank you’.

‘Well, I have a question’, an old wizard in the back of the chamber rose to his feet with certain difficulty. ‘How am I supposed to know whether this man is really innocent? For twelve years have I believed in his guilt! Veritaserum or not, I demand further proof’.

‘You may sit down, Lord Selwyn, thank you’, Madame Bones said, as powerfully as if it was an order. The man grumpily did so, followed, slowly, by many other wizards.

‘If I may, Madame Bones’, Andrea started once the chamber quieted down. ‘Since Lord Selwyn’s inquiry is understandable, I’ve allowed myself to bring witnesses who could support Mr Black’s confession’.

‘This is ridiculous’, Fudge interrupted. ‘We’ve no time for games, MacMillan. I propose we go on with the voting now and move on to other matters. Surely you can see this is a farce?’

‘Now, Cornelius, Lord Selwyn is raising a legitimate concern. The Wizengamot cannot in good conscience drop the matter now’, Dumbledore spoke calmingly. ‘Amelia, before we hear the witnesses, I would like to ask Mr Black one more questions. It would, perhaps, clarify the issue Lord Selwyn so thoughtfully put forward, and it would be prudent to hear it answered now, before the Veritaserum wears off’.

‘Of course, Chief Warlock’, Amelia consented. Fudge remained silent, his face growing purple.

‘Mr Black’, Dumblefore said, ‘are you or were you in the past a follower or sympathizer of Lord Voldemort?’.

Remus sensed a shuffle at the name spoken so easily. In front of him, Fudge visibly flinched. Next to him, Harry snorted at that quietly.

‘I’m not and have never been a supporter of Voldemort’, Sirius spoke.

Dumbledore nodded, satisfied. ‘I have no further questions’. The wizards kept talking again and Remus had to fight the urge to turn round and see what Malfoy and Madame Longbottom were doing.

‘Good’, Bones said. ‘Williamson, give Mr Black the antidote now’.

Remus patted Harry’s back as he got ready to speak up. He was Andrea’s first witness, followed by Harry. As he was adamant not to include Harry, the boy argued that he had to help and Sirius ultimately thought that playing the Boy Who Lived card, loathsome as it was, could be of immense help if faced with scepticism.

Called out by Andrea, Remus walked out of his seat and swore an oath, the tip of his wand flashing a bright glow. He knew the oath was not as binding as the Unbreakable Vow, but it would result in a temporary loss of magical ability if he spoke untruth. He answered calmly as Andrea asked a few questions confirming his identity, and braced himself for what was to come.

‘Sirius Black did not murder Peter Pettigrew. I saw Peter last month, alive and well, on the premises of Hogwarts’.

By then, the gasps he heard were quite predictable, really.

 

***

 

Hardly had he sat down when the first accusation came.

‘Surely we cannot be expected to listen to a known werewolf’, Lucius Malfoy snarled with distaste. Remus kept his head high and thought of a night many years ago when he recognized Malfoy in a Death Eater raid and hexed the man with a curse he’d just invented so that the man had a limp for the next month that no spell could cure or hide. Nobody could say that Remus Lupin was anything else than efficient in a duel.

Other voices began to back Malfoy up, and then even Fudge nodded thoughtfully. Next to him Harry was clenching his fists with rage.

‘How dare they’, he said, ‘they’re gonna...’

‘Easy, Harry’, Remus said. ‘They don’t matter. We’ve planned for this, remember?’

Harry nodded silently. His eyes were sending daggers at Fudge.

‘Lord Malfoy’, Andrea finally cast a Sonorus on herself to let her voice carry. ‘Please do not encourage such behaviour. Surely, we cannot be expected to participate in something as unbecoming as _general rowdiness_ ’, she said, parroting his earlier expression. Before Malfoy could answer, she continued. ‘Of course, I would be happy to invite here a witness you consider more credible. Perhaps even yourself? You might remember Peter Pettigrew, after all, from the time you shared a company of his comrades while _placed under Imperius_ ’.

At that, silence fell. Somebody coughed loudly and Remus could swear Harry snickered.

‘I myself see no problem in questioning Remus Lupin’s credibility. His oath was only proper, and his long acquaintance with both Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew suggests his in-depth knowledge of the matter, something very few can claim’, Andrea continued.

‘You should remember from your Defence Against Dark Arts lessons, Lord Malfoy, that other than the full moon, a werewolf can perfectly well maintain his mental capacities. It is, after all, a pre-OWL knowledge’, Augusta Longbottom spoke suddenly. Her voice was dry but clear. Next to her, an elderly witch that Remus recognized as the governor of the Wizarding Examination Authority, Griselda Marchbanks, nodded furiously.

‘This is correct, Lord Malfoy. Perhaps you’d care to refresh your memory? I’m sure your son should have quite a few textbooks at your disposal. Now, an attempt to discredit a proper witness simply because of his affliction seems rather indecent and goes against the Wizengamot protocols. I should think you remember, Lord Malfoy, that the rules say that if a witness is confirmed as mentally stable and willing to testify, there is no reason to protest against his involvement. Mr Lupin’s willingness we have just seen; his mental ability can be observed by anybody in his room, and anybody who’s read a third year Defence textbook’, the old witch ranted, and then puffed for good measure. ‘And I have never thought I’d have to lecture an adult wizard on that!’.

‘Thank you, Griselda’, Dumbledore interfered, but he did so with a slight smile. ‘Andrea, if you’d like to continue...’.

‘I would’, Andrea replied. ‘Be it lack of dedication at school or narrow-minded prejudice, Lord Malfoy’s attitude is shared by a number of people in Wizarding Britain. I call another witness, one who was also present when Peter Pettigrew was spotted at Hogwarts, and one against whom such accusations will not stand’, Andrea stated resolutely. ‘I call Harry James Potter, Heir of the House of Potter’.

Remus was proud to see that Harry faced the crowds with the same Gryffindor courage he had seen in Lily and James. It was Harry’s first public appearance, and his first role to play as the heir to his house. Sirius had spent hours drilling the proper code of conduct into Harry’s head, and although they were all unsure how Harry would behave under pressure, Remus now lost some of his worries. Harry did not walk like a confused boy who had spent most of his life in the Muggle world. Sirius taught him how to embrace the Boy Who Lived persona in such a way that it was no longer a cumbersome moniker but rather a second skin that could be put on whenever convenient. And so Harry strode to Andrea with a kind of a quiet fearlessness that Remus remembered Lily possessed as well. It was smoother than James and his brash raw audacity, and definitely more suitable to display in the Ministry’s old halls.

Oh Merlin, Remus thought, we might make a politician out of him yet.

‘I object’, boomed a voice. Remus turned, and yes, there he was – Malfoy’s usual companion, Rowle. Remus regretted he never duelled this one but the man had it coming. A suspected Death Eater that had bought his way out of Azkaban, Rowle had enough influence and wits not to fall into any Auror trap. He knew Amelia Bones hated him with passion, even if she was too professional to let it show. ‘The Potter boy is just a child! His testimony would be no more reliable than the werewolf’s!’.

‘And I object to your objection, Lord Rowle’, Bones spoke quickly. ‘Have you not heard it is the Potter Heir you’re insulting? If you don’t want to initiate a feud between your families, Lord Rowle, I suggest you to voice your thoughts more carefully. Any heir’s age is not important if he stands up in his political capacity, as you should well know. Heir Potter could demand a duel for the insult to his integrity as a witness and as a wizard, and he could also assign an ally to fight in his stead’.

Remus knew that now the Wizengamot wondered whether the House of Potter secured any recent allies in the last years. Amelia played this out well, taking a bit of the focus on Harry’s young age and replacing it with the temptation to scheme. Whatever the outcome of the trial was going to be, those wizards and witches would be dying to discover the new shifts of power. And as far as Remus knew, there were not any.

He’d be happy to duel the bastard anyway.

 ‘Do not antagonize Heir Potter, Lord Rowle’, a male voice bellowed from Remus’ right side. It was Lord Greengrass. Remus turned his head just in time to see Lucius Malfoy mask his own rage at his own fraction arguing. ‘We are here to see justice, not petty fights’.

‘I think that now we have more pressing matters than duels, Madame Bones’, Harry spoke respectfully. ‘I agree with Minister Fuge that we should not waste time, you see’.

Did Harry just suggest that a row with Rowle was beneath him? Sirius was going to be so proud. Remus glanced at his friend, still chained to the chair. He was observing Harry carefully, with a hint of fondness in his features. Harry meanwhile completed his oath calmly and answered Andrea’s questions truthfully as she guided him through the events of the same night that Remus had described before.

‘I did see Peter Pettigrew’, Harry said. ‘He was a rat Animagus, like Professor Lupin said. He changed into a rat – it had no paw, the same way he had no finger as a human – and he escaped’.

Remus expected Harry to stop there and wait for Andrea’s next question, but then Harry turned his attention to Fudge and spoke directly to him. ‘To be honest, Minister Fudge, I find it quite appalling that the previous administration neglected to catch a dangerous Death Eater. It was a terrible mistake on their part, don’t you agree?’.

‘Ehm, yes, quite so’, Fudge replied, visibly startled that he was being addressed, but pleased that the Boy Who Lived did not seem to blame him for the Sirius Black fiasco.

‘I’m happy to see that _your_ administration doesn’t follow in their footsteps, Minister, and instead tries to see that justice is being done’.

It was really an obvious attempt at flattery, Remus thought. He could see Sirius holding back a smile. He knew that given a chance, his friend was going to teach Harry how to butter up politicians properly. But Fudge seemed to fall for it – nobody could accuse him of any kind of acumen, Remus thought.

Andrea continued asking her questions, and Harry soon finished speaking. As he was ready to sit down, Fudge spoke again.

‘I don’t think you’re going to have any more complaints, Rowle, Mr Potter here is obviously a clever young man  with a good head on his shoulders. I find his story quite fascinating myself’.

Although the Minister did not disclose whether he was convinced by it or not, Remus noted. Fudge probably did want to rub shoulders with The Boy Who Lived, but accepting his story as true and looking for Pettigrew was going to make him more trouble. Remus knew it could be played out properly, though – Harry had already put the blame publicly on the previous Minister, and Fudge would be a fool not to exploit this.

Well, he was a fool, Remus thought. Nevertheless...

‘The voting will begin now. All for Sirius Black’s innocence, shoot your blue sparks. All for his guilt, shoot red. Be reminded that additional wands are not allowed and be detected by anti-deception spells’.

As Amelia Bones spoke, she wordlessly waved her wand and a silvery shape appeared in front of Sirius. It looked like a witch in simple long robes. Her ghostly eyes were closed and her arms were outstretched, long sleeves almost touching the floor. Instead of a wand, in her hands she carried two perfectly silver orbs.

‘They look like Rememberalls’, Harry whispered next to him. ‘Who is she? Is it a Patronus?’.

‘Madame Bones called the Rihtwīsnes’, Remus explained, equally quietly. ‘It’s a part of the Færeld magic, a visible manifestation of the verdict that is tied to the Ministry itself. Only the judges have the power to call her. Watch’.  

The wizards and witches began to cast. Remus at first tried to count the coulours of the sparks, but in vain. Both red and blue went up in the air, and he helplessly watched them mingle under the ceiling. Next to him, Harry’s eyes were locked at Sirius’ still form, and Remus prayed that the things go right, and they could go home, and that finally everything would be fine.

Then the Rihtwīsnes began to raise her hands up above her silver head. The sparks floated towards her, entering the two orbs: blue to the right one, red to the left. The orbs twirled, changing colours, and then Remus caught his breath as the Rihtwīsnes glowed and shattered one of them, letting the sparks dim on the floor. She then caught the remaining orb with both of her hands and presented it first to Sirius, then to the judges, and then to everybody else.

Remus did not dare to blink. It was true, then. The Rihtwīsnes shattered the red orb and left the blue.

Then, the Rihtwīsnes dissolved, leaving only the blue-glowing orb, which Dumbledore sent with a tap of his wand to the Wizengamot Archives. With a flicker of a smile, he announced what Remus already knew.

They convinced the Wizengamot.

Sirius was free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me much longer than expected, and I'm very sorry for that. The chapter was a joy to write but I had very little time. It's quite long, though, and we're finally getting the trial so I hope it was worth the wait at least a bit!  
> Next time: more wizarding law. We're not done yet.
> 
> All my sources say that Rihtwīsnes is the Old English for righteousness. I thought it could go well with the Faereld.


	14. Chapter 14

‘It’s absolutely fantastic!’, a dark-haired woman exclaimed, striding up to Sirius the moment they left the courtroom. She was tall and imposing, in practical leather boots and an outer robe which would look more in place in a duelling practice than in a courtroom. ‘I’m so happy for you, Sirius, congratulations!’. She hugged the astonished Sirius tightly, and then did the same with Lupin. Harry didn’t know how she’d learnt the news so quickly – they were one of the first leaving the courtroom, after Sirius basically snatched Harry away so they could avoid a swarm of politicians and reporters.

‘Thanks, Annie’, Sirius said, grinning. Harry thought he looked so much younger like that. ‘And have you met my godson, Harry? Harry, this is my cousin Andromeda Tonks’.

‘Call me Annie’, she said, and unexpectedly hugged him too. ‘You were brilliant there!’, she whispered fiercely into his ear. Harry now really wanted to know where she got this information from – was she present and the trial? – but then she let him go. He couldn’t help but smile at her unhidden enthusiasm. Sirius was _free_ , really free, and Harry still couldn’t believe that.

 It was, for sure, the strongest Patronus memory.

‘We’ve got half an hour before the next trial, Siri, and I’m rather opposed to the idea of going there on an empty stomach’, she said. ‘And you’re going to be accosted the moment you step out of this corridor if not sooner, so I propose you all grab this and hold for dear life’. She reached into her pocket and took out a simply-looking glove. ‘Each of you grab one finger’, she ordered.

‘What’s that?’, Harry asked quickly.

‘It’s a Portkey’, Lupin explained gently. ‘It allows you to travel fast long distances. Not the most pleasant mode of transportation but it will do. Remember to hold tight, Harry, and be careful, the landing may not be pleasant’.

‘It’s easier to start running just before the landing’, Andromeda advised. ‘This way you won’t fall. Now, hold on, and on the count of three... two... one...’.

And then the world whirled. Harry opened his eyes with a certain difficulty – the wind was blowing into his face – and realized they were outside, up in the air, moving fast. He glanced at Sirius next to him, who was laughing uncontrollably, and at Lupin, who watched him with concern. Harry wanted to ask how they happened to move the building, but when he shouted, the wind carried away any sound. Then Lupin and Andromeda both started to run in the air, and Harry quickly followed just seconds before they hit the ground. He felt a bit dizzy – whether it was a leftover feeling of elation from the trial or a result of the travel, he wasn’t sure.

‘It was brilliant, Annie!’, Sirius exclaimed. He steadied Harry with one hand.

‘Where are we?’, Harry asked. The room they landed in was dark, its granite walls giving an impression akin to a dungeon. There was a small window next to a cluttered bookshelf but it seemed to have been charmed to display a different kind of weather – instead of the cloudy but pleasant day out there in London, it showed a heavy storm.

‘In my office at Gringotts’, Andromeda replied promptly. ‘Sorry for the exceptional cosiness’, she said, ‘the goblins are not the most pleasant hosts. They think the more antagonistic the weather is towards you, the better. It was thunders all day last week’.

She transfigured her desk into a table while Lupin changed some of her loose pieces of paper into additional chairs. Sirius, with a goofy smile, waved his hands to produce a glowing ball of light similar to those he always teased Harry with at Grimmauld Place. It floated up above the table, giving more light that Andromeda’s candles could manage.

The woman reached to her pocket again and enlarged a big basket.

‘Sit down and eat’, she ordered. Harry obediently reached out for a sandwich, watching with amusement as Sirius wandlessly tried to hex Lupin to distract him from a doughnut that he wanted to snatch.

‘So you’re working at the bank?’, Harry asked her. The woman nodded curtly, helping herself to a snack.

‘I’m a senior curse breaker’, she explained. ‘A lot of things that come to Gringotts are charmed or hexed and it’s my job to identify the curses and lift them, if possible without destroying the object. It’s a good job, if not a bit dangerous, but Merlin knows that after the childhood I had I’ve got lots of experience to dark magic’.

‘Annie’s a Black, too’, Sirius explained. ‘My favourite cousin’.

‘Your only sane cousin’, Andromeda corrected a bit darkly. ‘Possibly the only sane person in the Black family. You, Siri, don’t count’, she waved a finger at him. ‘Anyway, I was disinherited at seventeen and had to make a living, so I thought that since I already knew more about curses than your next witch, I could use it to my advantage and here we are’.

‘’We’ve got fifteen minutes and then we need to dash, Annie’, Remus warned. ‘If you’ve got more stories, and I’m sure you do, they need to wait’.

She nodded at him sharply and Harry thought that some of her mannerisms were a bit like those of a goblin.

‘Oh, wait, Sirius, you’ve got a bug on your collar’. She rose from her seat and walked up to him. ‘Hold still, I’ll let it loose outside when we go. No need for a poor thing to got lost and cold in the Gringotts halls’.

And then she suddenly got her wand out, Petrified the bug and put it on her chair.

‘Well, boys, seems like we’ve got an Animagus here’, she mused. ‘Have we got time for a quick interrogation?’, she asked.

Sirius nodded grimly and Andromeda waved her wand again. Harry knew what was going to happen. It was the same as with Wormtail; the bug grew larger and larger, its animal body swiftly being replaced with a human one, and then, in a second, there was a blond woman in green robes sitting next to them, bewildered and obviously angry. Lupin immobilised her before she could do anything.

‘Rita Skeeter’, he said. ‘How fancy seeing you here’.

Harry had seen Lupin so furious only once, in the Shrieking Shack, and it had been then that he realized how feral the man could be, in more ways than one. Lupin’s anger was different from Sirius’ explosive outbursts – it was as if the man was fully in control over his emotions and only chose to show those that would make him the most intimidating. His amber eyes, now darker with hate, were fixed on Rita Skeeter while his body was tense and battle-ready, and completely still. He held his wand pointed at the woman, eager to hex if necessary.

She was a journalist, Harry recalled, a vile one. A journalist, he thought, and a spy too.

‘I could deal with her, if you’d like’, Annie offered casually. She stood at the door, twirling her wand between her fingers in what looked like a display of dangerous nonchalance.

‘I’ve got a few ideas myself’, Sirius said darkly. His earlier great mood seemed to have evaporated; now magic crackled at his fingers – Rita was tracing that with a hint of fear, not even paying attention to Lupin’s deadly posture – and Sirius suddenly fired a stream of energy at her. She screamed.

‘Oh, come on, Rita, you can be better than that’, Sirius coaxed with a fake smile. ‘It was but a simple binding spell. I was thinking of better ways to entertain you’.

‘What have you got in mind, Sirius?’, Lupin said pleasantly, as if he wasn’t threatening the woman.

‘This and that’, Sirius said. He walked slowly, circling the woman as if she were a piece of art in a museum he wanted to see more clearly, a marble sculpture. ‘I was thinking of putting her into a box, you see, sans her wand, unable to transfigure herself back, forever a bug... Or maybe just make her a bug, permanently, and let her loose on Muggle fields. They have those wonderful potion-like things called pesticides’.

From her terrified look, Harry could see Skeeter knew what he was talking about.

‘Sirius’, he said. His godfather turned to him and winked. Harry didn’t like it. It was too close to the bullying he had to suffer through at the hands of Dudley’s and his gang. Something in his expression must have shown his displeasure and disappointment; Sirius’ face momentarily softened.

He took a chair and sat down, helping himself to another sandwich. At the door, Annie rolled her eyes but didn’t speak.

‘Here’s what I think, Ms Skeeter. You can misbehave and we make you stuck in your lovely buggy form, and then you can roam freely in Muggle fields until some of their chemicals get under your skin and you die, forgotten and unrecognizable. Alternatively, we have a few reliable witnesses here who can provide statements about your wonderfully illegal Animagus transformation. Or‘, Sirius swallowed a bite of his sandwich, making a pause Harry knew was executed for entirely dramatic purposes, ‘you can write unbiased articles from now on instead of this utter rubbish you tend to produce’.

‘One lie and we’ll know’, Lupin warned grimly. ‘Annie, would you like to do the honours or shall I?’

‘I’m good, Remus. You go on’, she said, walking up to Harry. ‘Enjoy your life as a proper citizen, Ms Skeeter’.

Not bothering with an incantation, Lupin waved his wand. Harry didn’t see anything – there was no flash of light, nothing – but Lupin seemed satisfied as he nodded. One more wave later and Skeeter was able to move.

‘Just a modified Trace, Ms Skeeter’, Lupin informed her in his teacher voice. ‘It will notify me whenever you lie or spy’.

‘Bye, Skeeter!’, Sirius exclaimed cheerfully. Annie opened the door and the journalist all but fled from her office.

‘Way to spoil the lunch, Sirius’, Andromeda berated lightly. ‘We’ve got to go now, I think’.

‘Good job with the spell, Remus’, Sirius said. ‘And sorry, Annie, but you know I couldn’t help it’.

She nodded, a bit sadly, and simply reached out to her pocket for another Portkey.

‘Ready to go, Harry? It’ll bring us back to the court. We’ve got very little time’.

‘Andrea is going to kill us’, Remus murmured as they gathered around the Portkey. Sirius put his arm protectively around Harry’s shoulder.

‘Breathe’ , he advised. ‘It’s just flying, kiddo’. Harry nodded, a bit tense after the unexpected scene he’d just witnessed, and then in a blink they were gone.

 

***

 

‘Lord Black’, a cool voice said. Sirius turned to the woman.

‘Madame Longbottom’, he greeted. For the matron to acknowledge the title he had yet to officially claim was a huge gesture of support – one he was not sure how he warranted. ‘Thank you for your help’, he said cautiously.

She nodded simply. ‘I hope it will not get without reciprocity, Lord Black’.

Sirius had figured that much. Of course she wanted justice – or revenge, was it? – for her family.

‘That I can promise’, he declared.

She nodded again; the awful bird on her hat wobbled dangerously.

‘My grandson would be glad to keep your godson company, if you both wish so’, she offered. Sirius looked at Harry – he seemed excited to spend some time with a school friend instead of alone. Sirius was also sure that Madame Longbottom’s steely presence would help discourage any wizards or witches would like to bother Harry.

‘Thank you’, he said sincerely.

Sirius loathed letting Harry go, but his godson was not allowed to join him in the courtroom this time. Metagovernmental Courts were held in smaller chambers behind closed doors, allowing only a jury of seven Wizengamot members unaffiliated personally with the case, the suing party and possible witnesses. Even though Sirius’ Claim of Retrification had pointed out misdoings of the previous administration and not this one, the Ministry was walking on thin ice with him. They prefer to keep it as quiet as possible – a feat difficult enough with such a scandal.

Sirius had first arranged for Harry to wait in Arthur Weasley’s office – the Weasleys were fiercely protective of him, it seemed, and Sirius had already considered a few ways to thank them for taking care of his godson. Augusta Longbottom’s offer seemed preferable, though, he considered quickly – several possible political outcomes could arise from this, and most of them were advantageous.

Oh Merlin, he was thinking like a Slytherin again, he realized. He wished he could stop doing that for a moment. Sighing, Sirius barely restrained himself from ruffling his hair, and just sent him up to the gallery with a pat on his shoulder. Harry flashed him a smile and hurried after Madame Longbottom, who had nodded curtly and began a slow walk down the corridor the moment Sirius expressed his agreement. He watched Harry go, chatting animatedly with Neville, who was smiling a bit shyly, and it was then that Andrea found him.

‘I hope you’ve enjoyed your daring escape’, she muttered dryly. ‘We’ve got one more trial to win, Black, don’t you dare pulling that on me. Where have you been? Pull yourself together, this one is no less important. Don’t act like a rugged rebel, for Merlin’s sake. You know there hasn’t been such a scandal in ages’.

‘Where have I been? Here and there’, Sirius answered vaguely. ‘I had to catch up with a cousin. And you don’t even need me here, Andy. You’ve got everything under control’.

‘Everything but you’, she snorted. ‘Let’s go’.

 

***

 

Hermione wiggled her hands nervously as she listened to the wizarding radio. Her grandmother, curious about the mechanics of magic, peered at the device as if trying to force it to show her how it worked. Hermione wasn’t sure herself – it was, obviously, something to research – as magic and electronics didn’t go well together. She resolved to ask Mr Weasley. The radio looked like something he may have had some experience with; to her eye, it seemed to be something that could well fall within the reach of the misuses of Muggle artifacts if it hadn’t been cleared by the Ministry.

Hermione kept a clear roll of parchment in front of her, ready to jot down any questions she knew she was going to have. Her grandmother, tutting disapprovingly at her idiocy, had exchanged her quill for a simple bullet pen. Hermione accepted it gladly; learning her way with ink had been a challenge she didn’t welcome at all.

‘Easy, Hermione’, her grandmother said. ‘If he’s cleared, this is going to be a piece of cake’.

She reached her hand to a plate and served herself just that, nodding contentedly. Hermione was sure her grandmother only served cake to spite her dentist parents.

‘You don’t understand’, Hermione argued. ‘This is a historical event! Sirius is making history, grandma, and I can listen to it!’.

‘History’, her grandmother repeated. ‘History is made every day. Such a delicious cheesecake, on the other hand, is not. Do have a piece, darling’.

Hermione shook her head at it.

‘No, thank you’, she said. She knew better than to discourage Barbara Granger from her sweets.

Her grandmother, somehow managing to look menacing in her cosy living room, scowled without a word and attacked her cake with a fork.

‘One day I’ll manage to install some joy of life in you’, she promised darkly. Silence fell for a second, and then they laughed heartily.

‘All right’, Barbara said. ‘Let’s listen to your radio’.

Hermione obediently turned it on – the little box needed no wires to be connected to, and neither had it an antenna -  and then, they sat expectantly as a female reporter announced cheerfully:

‘Dear listeners, following the surprising outcome of Sirius Black’s trial this morning, I’m now waiting at the door to the ministerial hearing room number seven, in which the subsequent Metagovernmental Court is taking place. After Mr Black’s submission of the Claim of Retrification earlier this month, this trial is required to clear the matter of unlawful imprisoning of an innocent wizard. The trial is expected to...’

‘Well’, Barbara interrupted. ‘This is certainly going to take a while. Are you sure you don’t want any cake, darling?’.

 

***

 

This chamber was smaller but just as dark and imposing. Two oaken tables on sturdy legs stood one in front of the other on the opposite sides of the room. The space in between, which Sirius mentally dubbed as no man’s land, remained empty, other than an intricate dais with a large Sneakoscope on it.

Andrea led Sirius to the table on the left, sitting promptly and taking out all her miniature parchments from one pocket. She enlarged them with one flick of her wand, and spread on the table with another.

‘Don’t move anything’, she warned, casting a long methodical look at them, but then she relaxed slightly when everything was in order.

‘I wouldn’t dare’, Sirius murmured, only partially joking. ‘I’d be glad when this is over’, he said.

‘Don’t be such a spoilsport’, Andrea snickered. ‘The fun’s only starting’.

Sirius wouldn’t say that sitting in a gloomy courtroom doing nothing was his idea of fun – he’d rather prank the whole of the Ministry in a most ridiculous way, but he knew this wouldn’t get him anywhere – but Andrea did seem to be in her element. Sirius decided that pranking the Ministry with their own legal stuff was better than nothing, and so he sat more comfortably.

‘They should be here already’, he said. ‘We could have stayed with Annie and be fashionably late, too’.

‘We’ve got better manners than that, Sirius’, Andrea rebuked. ‘Although I do hope they’re here soon and this ends quickly. I’m not sure Fudge is going to be impressed when I call for a break because pregnant women pee frequently’.

Ah, yes, Sirius recalled hearing something like that. Probably years ago, during Lily’s pregnancy with Harry.

‘Will you be okay?’, he asked just as a group of solemn wizards and witches entered the chamber.

‘Of course’, she rolled her eyes. ‘But they won’t’.

Somehow Sirius knew that she wasn’t talking about ministerial toilets.

 

***

 

‘I’ve been telling Dumbledore for ages that you should visit us some time’, Augusta Longbottom complained. Her tone was scathing, and Harry felt a certain amount of smugness that her displeasure was not directed at him. Judging by Neville’s expression, he was not the only one.

‘I didn’t hear about it, Madame Longbottom’, Harry said, because she seemed to be expecting an answer.

‘Of course you didn’t’, she answered, her disgust entirely audible in her voice. ‘I’m going to have words with him. You should have never left the Wizarding World. Look at you! Completely unprepared. Elbows off the table, please’.

Augusta Longbottom, it appeared, was a woman of strong conviction. She took the boys to enjoy ice cream in Diagon Alley, but not before she had erected a strong privacy ward at Florian Fortescue’s ice cream parlour. Poor Mr Fortescue didn’t object. Harry thought he must have been afraid to.

She looked rather out of place in the cosy interior, sitting regally at the table, her hands folded in front of her. Although Neville was allowed to eat ice cream, and Harry too enjoyed his own flavour (chocolate and butterbeer, which was even more delicious that he’d thought it would be), she didn’t order anything. Harry thought her bird hat terrified a few toddlers.

‘I’ve learnt a few things this summer’, Harry tried to clarify. Next to him, Neville, whose ice cream was dropping from his spoon onto his shirt, looked petrified that Harry even attempted to reason with his formidable grandmother.

‘Have you?’, she only said.

Neville sighed.  

 

***

 

Albus Dumbledore entered the courtroom late.

‘I told you’, Sirius muttered. Andrea sent a mild wandless Stinging Hex at him.

Aware of the difficulty that wandless magic posed to the majority of the wizarding population, Sirius was equally impressed with her skill and baffled with her choices. It may well have been the only wandless spell she could cast, so why that?

Dumbledore benevolently nodded to the wizards and witches seated at the other table, and joined Sirius on his left, wordlessly transfiguring the wooden chair into a more comfortable one, with purple upholstery embroidered with orange Phoenixes that moved in unpredictable patterns. Sirius, not so discreetly, rolled his eyes.

‘Ah, yes’, Dumbledore said cheerfully. ‘It seems we can begin’, he decided, as if it was not him who arrived late.

Sirius watched as the faces of the Ministry officials, one by one, turned a bit sour.

There were all looking terribly official, in the way Purebloods managed to pull off with the same natural ease that Sirius knew he himself could turn on on a whim and hated it. Cornelius Fudge was there, looking sour as if he was just given terrible Bertie Bott bean to taste – and Sirius really hoped that was the case because the man was a walking disaster.

He was really looking forward to shattering him, politically, if given a chance, and he hoped there would be many. Harry’s blatant manipulation earlier during the trial might postpone it a bit, though, if Fudge caught the bait and would act in Sirius’ favour.

Next to Fudge, Amelia Bones looked professional as always, sitting stiff and oozing competence. The contrast between the two was hilarious, and Sirius was sure that Andrea noticed that, too, but couldn’t say anything. Sirius filed the thought away to share with Moony later.

Barty Crouch Senior sat next to her, and Sirius had to keep himself from snarling at the man. He hoped the man was here solely as a witness, though, and he didn’t even need Andrea’s calming hand on his forearm. The old politician visibly aged, Sirius noted not without satisfaction. Serves the bastard right.

Sirius had to refrain from firing a wandless light at him. He’s had a lot of practice, after all, and Crouch made a more than sufficient target.

Sirius promised himself to prank the man some time, anyway. He knew Remus had to have some ideas.

The last one was a middle-aged witch with curly dark hair and inquisitive eyes. Hypatia Shacklebolt, Sirius knew. He never met her at Hogwarts or afterwards, but Andrea painted her in a rather positive light. It was her who was going to lead today as an impartial representative of the Ministry.

‘The Metagovernmental Court of the 27th of July’, she intoned now. ‘Sirius Orion Black versus the Ministry of Magic’.

 

***

 

“The Ministry Representative is Hypatia Anna Shacklebolt’, the witch continued in the same official tone. ‘The speakers for the Ministry are the former and the current heads of the sued Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Bartemius Crouch and Amelia Susan Bones. The Minister of Magic, Cornelius Oswald Knot, is present as is his right’.

‘Sirius Black’s Representative are Andrea Edith Macmillan, barrister, and Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Chief Warlock’.

Sirius wished they’d get to the point. He tuned out the witch, who went on to explain the grounds for the trial – and why did she have to? Sirius wondered. It’s not as if they all didn’t know. He could sue the Ministry for sending him off to Azkaban without trial, so he did, and now the Ministry had to clean their own mess and Sirius was looking forward to it very, very much.

(He’s so going to celebrate afterwards).

Although he was sure that Andrea’s vicious pleasure was even greater than his own. The woman was positively gleeful, as much as she hid it.

She was also professional and attentive and had mastered a wandless Stinging Hex which she didn’t hesitate to use on Sirius whenever his mind wandered off.

Damn.

Sirius made an effort to focus and Andrea – who had since began question Crouch – looked an epitome of competence.

Really, Sirius thought. They should have made her a Marauder when Remus started to hang out with her.

‘... any reasons for neglecting to provide Sirius Black with a chance of an impartial trial?’, Andrea spoke now. Sirius focused.

Bartemius Crouch looked tense – not in a way that a guilty man would, though; Sirius thought the old wizard’s pressure, visible in the lines of his shoulders, came more from annoyance than anything else. He’d been in positions of respect and power for so long that any attempt to undermine his authority must have deeply shocked him. The sheer gall of Sirius’ was unprecedented.

Sirius gambled on it. He knew, of course, the Ministry would find faults. It’s not as if he had had a process back then.

Sirius knew more.

 

***

 

Augusta Longbottom was kind of fun, if you looked past her demeanor.

She seemed to think that Harry was a good influence on Neville, which Harry thought was ridiculous because it was him who always got into trouble and not Neville, and to even think that Madame Longbottom had to overlook his abysmal table manners. Harry was not blind. He could see the way Neville shrank every time Harry waved his spoon too much.

Or something. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing wrong, sometimes.

She was stern, but the Dursleys were stern too, and their sternness was of a different kind; harsh, unforgiving, and utterly cold. Neville’s grandmother genuinely cared for him, although in a weird way, as if she didn’t quite get the concept of conveying her feelings. But Harry could see she meant well.

(Unfortunately, he could see, and much too clearly, the bird hat too).

And she had _stories._

Not the kind of stories Sirius had told him, full of laughter with a tingle of wistfulness and a bitter longing Harry knew too, in a way; but stories about a little Jamie Potter who had playdates with her son, and about Lily’s, Harry’s mother, who once came over in summer to study Charms theory with Frank Longbottom.

‘We’re all abysmal at Charms, my side of the family’, the matron said bluntly. ‘But your mother was a prodigy’.

Harry beamed. Adults rarely talked about her mother – Aunt Petunia did, only to badmouth her, and Sirius did, but it was mostly in connection to Harry’s father, and rarely just to remember her, Lily, a person. Mrs Longbottom seemed to sense Harry’s excitement as she began to spin her tale, in a dry succinct voice which sounded out of place, but Harry really didn’t mind her tone when he could learn something about his mother.

‘I’ll have to look up some family albums’, Augusta mentioned eventually. ‘Maybe your mother appears in some pictures’.

‘I’d love that’, Harry exclaimed, gesturing with his hand. Unfortunately, he held a fork in it. Neville looked at him as if it physically pained him. Harry got the hint and lowered the hand down. ‘Thank you, Madame Longbottom. I have some pictures but I’d be so grateful if I could see some more’.

‘You could visit’, Neville blurted out, suddenly, his face a bit red. He glanced hesitantly at his grandmother, but relaxed when she nodded approvingly.

Harry grinned.

 

***

 

Sirius focused on looking regal, studious, and grand. At least, he hoped he was oozing the right image – his image was important, after all, his childhood etiquette lessons had taught him that much – because otherwise his intricate plan would fail, miserably, and so would crumble the tower of gold galleons he was going to receive as his indemnity. And he had plans for these galleons – they were going places – so that would be a bit not good.

So, Sirius hoped he emitted just the right kind of Pureblood poise, and thanked Merlin that he had every right in the world to keep his eyebrows slightly furrowed, just enough to show his disapproval at Crouch’s face and general existence. In fact, the eyebrows helped him to concentrate on wandlessly tearing Crouch’s outer robe along the seam. It was hard enough without being able to move his hands, but Sirius thought it was worth it.

He was going to boast to Remus later. And to Harry. He had to teach him that spell.

Sirius wasn’t as smooth as he’d assumed, though – Andrea stomped on his foot, painfully, not even bothering to hide her annoyance with him. Sirius sighed. Here we go.

She had a right to feel miffed, Sirius decided after a second of consideration. It was just about her turn to question Crouch, and here Sirius was, pranking the old goat.

Well, to be honest, how could Andrea expect anything less from him?

She stood up now, all signs of her disapproval directed, carefully, at Crouch and not at Sirius. He was, admittedly, thankful for it.

‘We have all had a chance to listen to the Ministry’s report on the case of Sirius Black – or rather, aggravatingly, a lack of it at the time of his imprisonment’, Andrea spoke.

Sirius blinked. So, he missed the Ministry’s report then. No wonder Andrea got so upset.

Nevermind. It’s not like they hadn’t known what they’d find.

He forced himself to focus on Andrea’s voice as she started to question Crouch. She sounded, he thought, entirely too calm for this. The old man didn’t get to swallow any Veritaserum – he was not a criminal, after all, Sirius thought bitterly – but Sirius had an inkling that this was likely to change very soon.

‘Sirius Black came from a family of Dark extremists and Færeld abusers’, Crouch answered Andrea’s questions, which Sirius missed again.

Merlin, he really needed to focus.

‘It seemed obvious at the time that he, too, would follow in his relatives’ footsteps, seeing as his cousin Bellatrix Lestrange was You-Know-Who’s most trusted servant, and his own brother Regulus joined Death Eaters while still at Hogwarts. Sirius Black’s own Light affiliation seemed like nothing more than a very well-constructed decoy’.

So, all was well, then, Sirius thought. Crouch was proceeding just in the way Andrea predicted. He leaned back in his seat, a bit more nonchalant than proper – Dumbledore actually threw him a curious glance at that – and observed as Andrea spoke to voice her other question, the one they both planned, but it was Dumbledore who hastened to beat her to it.

‘You should know, Bartemius’, he interrupted Andrea with a slight rebuke, ‘that no lawful judge should base their verdicts on their assumption only’.

‘We had no time for this, Albus, and you know it’, Crouch retorted. There was ahint of anger in his voice that hadn’t been present before. Sirius took a moment to enjoy it, the way you enjoy an inhale of a smoke that makes you cough.

‘Do I?’, Dumbledore mused. He took a pause, one that seemed as if it was going to continue, and Sirius was mentally preparing himself for one of Dumbledore’s weird maxims when Andrea cut in.

Merlin bless her.

‘The assumption that Sirius Black is going to act the way his relatives did was erroneous; not to mention, it was not consistent. There are Black family members, such as Alphard Black and Andromeda Tonks, who not only had refused to support Lord Voldemort but joined in an effort to fight him. This is, however, a matter we do not have to discuss. We...’

‘If most of his family is Dark, you can assume he’s Dark, too’, Crouch interrupted.

Sirius rolled his eyes.

‘I’m sitting right heeeere’, he sing-sang, waving his hand lazily as all heads turned to look at him.

Andrea’s gaze on him was murderous, but Sirius was almost certain that he could detect her faint amusement. Dumbledore, whose eyes were openly twinkling, seemed to have decided not to interfere with whatever Sirius planned to do.

Sirius didn’t plan at all, technically speaking. His all best plans had always been improvised.

(He’d planned that they’d switch the Secret Keepers and look where it lead him).

So he sprang to his feet with more vigour than the old chamber had possibly seen in ages. He strode around the table and towards the centre of the room, all but enjoying the five pairs of eyes on him, and deliberately stopping in front of Crouch’s face.

You bastard, Sirius thought, I’m going to end you today.

 

***

 

Hermione decided that the main problem with the Wizarding World was that it had not considered television to be important enough. Why would the radio be acceptable – popular, even – but not TV? She’d give a lot to watch  the proceedings instead of listening to them.

She wasn’t even listening to them, in fact – just hearing about them from a reporter who was stood in front of the chamber in which they were held. Hermione had read that the room had been magically silenced so that nobody would eavesdrop – and if she hadn’t read, the reporter’s words would have informed her anyway. It was a new piece of information for her grandmother, though, so Hermione delightedly engaged in a short lesson of Wizarding history, which included a lot of trivia on court security. Her grandmother had a lot of opinions about it.

Hermione had started considering that maybe they should do something about the current state of affairs. It wasn’t like her to sit back and do nothing, and Hermione was well aware that she got the urge to act and reform the world from somewhere – or from someone.

 

***

 

‘There is a certain flaw here, Mr Crouch’, Sirius stated. His voice was lilting, just a bit – Sirius controlled it, like he could control his magic, sparkling against his veins, and like he could control his anger, ready to strike. He turned on his heel, addressing Dumbledore.

‘Chief Warlock’, he said, ‘I request you or an impartial Healer cast a Mind Diagnostic Spell on me’.

 

***

 

Hermione’s lecture was cut short when the announcements on the radio suddenly turned out to be rather informative. Something was happening. Hermione moved closer to the radio, curious, as her grandmother shook her head.

‘You’re going to hear well enough from here, darling’, she said, but Hermione didn’t give in.

‘This is huge, you know’, Hermione gushed to her. ‘They’re making history, and we can listen to this, it’s amazing!’.

‘It’s what happens every day’, her grandmother said. ‘With a satisfactory TV covering’.

 

***

 

The Healer arrived, a middle-aged, dark-haired witch, so short that Sirius almost had to bend down to look at her. Sirius got bored while she was being cleared to cast the spell on him, and proceeded to stare down at Crouch again, which was decidedly more satisfying.

He went through the procedure quickly – she was reminded not to cast any other spells, he was reminded he has to give his permission again, Crouch wasn’t reminded anything but Sirius was going to refresh his memory quite soon. The spell hit him like a wave around his brain, soft but washing over his thoughts with a certain unforgiving coldness. Sirius let himself go, dropping his Occlumency shields as the spell sank into his whole being. The tides of magic soon ebbed away, and Sirius caught his breath a bit shakily, as if emerging from cold water.

‘Mood and Magic Fluctuations’, the Healer stated in a clear, no-nonsense tone. ‘It has been associated with a prolonged exposure to Dementors’.

‘Does it affect his critical thinking, though?’, Fudge grumped. Sirius grinned at him and waved, noting happily that the man seemed to be at a loss.

‘Mr Black is completely aware of what he is doing’, the Healer replied, and was it a pinch of disapproval in her voice?

Ooops.

Sirius blinked, noticing that everybody caught on. Here goes playing a madman, he thought, and really, it was all his own fault. He had just walked himself into this one.

He blinked, again, and forced his face to be schooled into one of those Pureblood grimaces his father had been so fond of. Everybody seemed to be looking at him, Andrea positively murderous, and Sirius was just about to quip something witty when Dumbledore gave a slight cough.

‘Now that this has been concluded’, he said cheerfully, ‘Mr Black can proceed. I am, of course, assuming that we didn’t call Healer Perkins here for no reason’.

‘Yes’, Sirius mumbled, forcing himself not to space out. ‘I do indeed have a reason to ask to be examined’, he continued, more surely. ‘I have evidence that Mr Crouch has not been, in fact, impartial in his decisions made in 1981, other than my trial’.

‘What do you mean?’, Fudge exploded – Sirius really, really had expected that and the man didn’t disappoint. ‘I can assure you that there is no corruption in the Ministry...’

‘Ah, but Minister’, Andrea interjected smoothly. ‘Of course we know. But in 1981, it wasn’t the same Ministry, was it? Minister Bagnold was still in office back then’.

‘Of course, of course’, Fudge babbled, and Sirius thought it was impossible how easy the man was to manipulate. He had half a mind to get close to him and use him for his own political gain – or rather, more simply, for his own amusement.

‘There isn’t much you can do in a cold Azkaban cell when your mind is intact’, Sirius began to spin the story as if he hadn’t been interrupted. ‘I used to revise spells in my head, or think about magical theory, but there is only so much you can mull over before you get bored. So I listened to other prisoners’.

Sirius could see his listeners becoming enthralled – and really, it was a kind of magic – so he smiled, sadly, with only a touch of his actor’s skills in the crook of his mouth, and went on.

‘You have to understand that listening was not an easy thing to do. People go mad easily in Azkaban. They go mad quickly. You get to hear them screaming, wailing, casting spells in vain. You hear them sobbing. It’s very rare that they are sane enough to speak anything that can be understood as a proper conversation, so when I heard something that was, definitely, a couple of people speaking, I was instantly hooked’.

Sirius paused for a more dramatic effect.

‘It was Bartemius Crouch and his wife, talking. I didn’t hear that much, other than her being apprehensive about  somebody finding something out, and Mr Crouch here calming her down that he is a politician, after all, and he can cover up his own tracks. They went to Barty Junior’s cell – and Barty was always quiet, like a mouse, you see. But after that night, he started screaming.

It is easy to go mad in Azkaban. Some people don’t have much time before their minds betray them and magic slips from them. After that visit, Barty got broken. He screamed; he cried; he repeated the same sentence over and over again, like a mantra. “Drink your Polyjuice, Barty!”, I heard for nights and days, until the person in that cell died”.

Sirius locked his eyes with Crouch’s. ‘Only it wasn’t your  Death Eater spawn who died in that cell, was it, Crouch? It was your wife’.

 

***

 

‘Oh my’, Hermione’s grandmother clunked the tea cup against the table as they listened to the radio report. ‘See, darling, that’s how you take your revenge’.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me so long! I can't believe it's been two months. I'm not entirely happy with this chapter but I think it's the best I can write at the moment. I'd like to rewrite it some time though... I didn't think it was entirely fair to prolong the hiatus so here I am, posting what I have. Hope you enjoy it at least a bit :)


	15. Chapter 15

Sirius had been absolutely adamant that a party was necessary.

‘I haven’t had a good party in years, Remus’, he complained, his voice as whiny as a dog’s. Remus couldn’t refuse, not really. If he had, then Sirius would have thrown a party anyway, and Remus knew from experience that the outcome could be disastrous.

(He had to talk to Sirius about never mentioning that rooftop to Harry. Never).

‘There was Harry’s birthday party, Siri’, he said because he knew that Sirius expected him to protest and because Sirius might be a political force to be reckoned with and one of the strongest wizards in Britain, but it was Remus who was a real adult here and they both knew it.

‘But Moony!’, Sirius exclaimed then, and Remus agreed even though they both didn’t even think this was a proper argument. If Sirius wanted a goodbye party before him and Harry went on their little trip, then Remus would let him have it.

Sirius, surprisingly, threw himself into party preparations with the enthusiasm of an overgrown puppy. Remus thought it had to have something to do with his new chance to go out freely, without care that somebody would report him; every act of walking out of the door deserved a celebration. And so all Remus had to do was prevent Sirius from getting into anything _too_ stupid or _too_ dangerous, all the while knowing full well that he would never completely succeed. Remus indulgently let Sirius have his fun, interfering only when Sirius got carried away (which was, unfortunately, and predictably, often).

Thankfully at least Harry seemed unfazed. His days alternated between dinners at the Weasleys’ and teas at the Longbottoms’ (it was Remus’ understanding that Augusta didn’t care much for Harry’s table manners and didn’t trust Sirius to even notice them, so she took it upon herself to terrorize him), and sometimes he would hang out with Ernie and Susan, too, surprisingly enough. It was heart-warming to see him more carefree and making friends other than Ron and Hermione, and if Hermione dropped by every now and then with a bunch of heavy books Harry apparently needed to read, nobody complained.

(Sirius absolutely adored Hermione now, after he’d insisted on tagging along with the teenagers to the cinema to see The Mask. Sirius wanted to have the mask. He wanted to be The Mask. “Imagine the pranks, Remus!”).

Remus was thankful for Harry’s easy acceptance. He’d been going to a Mind Healer for a couple of weeks now, at Remus’ insistence, and with a rare outburst of proper adult behaviour, Sirius diligently watched Harry drink phials of vitamin potions. It may have had something to do with Andrea leaving him a very detailed parchment that they had provisionally entitled Taking Care of Harry 101; Remus thought that having received that, Sirius should have doubled her paycheck.

‘Remus?’, Harry asked now, his voice exasperated. ‘Sirius is home. He’s brought _squirrels’._

***

‘It’s nothing special’, Sirius defended himself.

‘Right’, Andromeda snickered. ‘Because preparing a Hogwarts-worthy feast is a daily occurrence’.

Sirius didn’t even have the decency to look sheepish.

‘I thought somebody could be hungry’.

Remus internally wondered if this was Sirius’ attempt at playing a good host, his excessive personality acting up, or his lack of proper food in prison leaving a mark deeper than they all would like. For Sirius’ sake, he hoped it wasn’t the latter. Sirius had come a long way, and Remus was there to support him in any way he could, but all the same, he hoped his support would never be necessary.

He had bought Muggle books about post traumatic stress and read them from cover to cover, highlighting passages and scribbling notes like ages ago, when he’d been studying for his NEWTS. He still felt uncertain about his own ability to help Sirius; sometimes Remus didn’t know if he could still read his friend as well as back in their Hogwarts days, and how do you help a person after a dozen years in Azkaban anyway?

Remus sighed, drawing the attention to himself. The three o them were standing in the garden, now illuminated with the lights Sirius so liked to conjure, and decorated with tropical flowers that tried to snatch your drinks away and danced drowsily if succeeded. Andromeda looked ready to duel the belligerent magical daffodil which had just attempted to steal her Firewhisky.

‘At least you didn’t bring the squirrels’, Remus said, hoping to deflect the attention from the real reason for his sigh.

‘Squirrels’. Andromeda repeated, incredulous.

‘They were fluffy’, Sirius said, as if that was a perfectly good reason to bring home twenty and let them loose in the living room.

‘Fluffy’, Andromeda repeated sternly. She looked so much like a darker version of McGonagall that Remus had to stifle a laugh.

‘I always wanted a fluffy squirrel’, Sirius mused, suddenly contemplative. He still got those moments, Remus thought, when he’d switch his moods in a blink of an eye. The Mind Healer said they’d pass, but it could take months or it could take years, and Remus was not willing to let Sirius suffer so long again. Quietly, first unsurely, and recently with a hand as steady as in a duel, he began sacrificing his  regrets every morning. He had yet to tell Sirius, but somehow Remus was sure his friend may have already noticed that Remus now followed the Færeld, too. ‘I always wanted one but father said they were too common’, he continued. Andromeda scowled.

‘Bugger the old man’, she said. ‘He’s not here anymore. But, Sirius, for the love of Merlin, if I ever come here and any animals will chew on my robes, you’re _so_ paying for it’.

With a snicker, she wandered off to join her daughter on the other side of the garden, and it was then that Harry approached them. Remus looked fondly as Sirius momentarily brightened up.

‘Ron wants to play Quidditch now’, Harry told them. ‘Can we? And will you join?’

Remus noticed with amusement that Harry was only asking pro forma, that he had already known Sirius would never say no to a match. Sirius gave his approval with a radiant grin, daring Harry to chase him to the brooms even though they could have summoned them. Sudddenly alone, Remus sat down on the grass, unmindful of the evening dew. The Longbottoms weren’t there – despite Sirius’ best attempts, Augusta was still not comfortable socializing with him informally – and the MacMillans couldn’t very well attend with a newborn in tow, but Hermione was discussing something animatedly with Susan and Amelia Bones. He heard the Weasleys laughing in the distance, Andromeda shouting something boisterous about unicorns that left them all breathless, and Tonks changing her hair to the unicorn silver. Above him, Sirius’ lights were twirling, floating in the air without care. Remus smiled, focused on his happiness, and let it go to the Færeld. He was content.

 

***

 

The first thing Harry noticed, moments before he opened his eyes, was the smell. He was taking a deep, shaky intake of breath, the kind he couldn’t help but doing after the unpleasant sensation of Apparating, and it hit him with the full force of something new and unknown, like a cold spell or a taste of pumpkin juice after an exhausting Quidditch practice, the kind which feels like you are nothing but a one great sore muscle and your brain shuts down. The smell felt fresh and salty, unlike anything Harry had known, and he opened his eyes with a quiet gasp.

Sirius watched him in silence. There was something soft about his presence now – he was letting Harry take in the view on his own, and although he still hovered protectively next to him after the Apparition, one arm still on Harry’s shoulder, he didn’t purposefully draw attention to himself. It was their moment, but it was for Harry.

It was nearing dark; they both had hoped for a beautiful sunset, but the sky was overcast in grey and stormy blue; the clouds swelled above the horizon like sullen flower buds here and there, and in other places blurred with the sea, everything in the same blue-grey; everything was water, anything was skyline, interrupted only by the bushy white eyebrows of waves. Beneath Harry’s feet, the sand was blueing too, as if slightly bruised.

‘Sirius’, Harry said, stunned. ‘It’s beautiful’.

‘It is’, Sirius agreed. They were alone on the beach; the Blacks used to come here often, to an unplottable area they had won over from a Scottish clan a long time ago, and nobody used it nowadays. Sirius remembered hiding there for a time in his early days a fugitive, the first time he could feel free because he was sure that there was absolutely nobody who would bother to go there. The Blacks had been absolutely mad about their privacy, and so he knew it was safe.

He didn’t voice any of this to Harry, though. Harry had time to learn of all that, to learn Sirius, and he had years ahead of him to know Sirius’ pain. Sirius would spare him, if he could; Harry had enough of his own pain to fill in the whole ocean.

He didn’t say any of that; instead, he reached into his pocket and enlarged a blanket he’d folded there. The Blacks had a cottage nearby; Sirius knew that by the time they got there for the night, Kreacher would have prepared the rooms and left them some supper. There was no hurry – it was Harry’s time, after all – and Sirius was content to sit next to his godson under the quiet, quiet sky.

He had longer to bring Harry here from the moment he’d learnt the boy had never seen the sea, with its all grand vastness and magic; Harry had said something a hut on a rock where the Dursleys had taken him in a futile attempt to escape from a swarm of Hogwarts letters, but that was not how you should go to the sea, not at all, and so Sirius waited, and waited, and finally planned a perfect trip a few days before the school year would begin. He was going to see Harry off from here to King’s Cross, Harry’s trunk already packed, but first he was going to ensure that Harry was having the best summer in his life.

They had talked about it before; Sirius had already intruded on Harry’s life once, with the grace of a Hippogriff and the subtlety of a Dementor, and he was not going to do that again. There had been long evening talks in that old room beneath a charmed sky, private enough that it was only two of them, godfather and his godson, private enough that even Remus would never intrude. And it was them that led Sirius and Harry here, to the grey sand and the equally grey sky, great like a promise.

‘I always thought it would be bluer’, Harry remarked, observing the waves crushing with a loud but soft sound.

‘It can be’, Sirius said, thinking of the sky and the night, and of the sea. ‘But I think it’s okay as it is’.

‘Yeah’, Harry said. He wasn’t looking at Sirius; instead, his eyes followed the waves, straining as everything around them was darkening.

‘Eloquent’, Sirius teased, without a real sarcasm behind it. Harry shrugged. They had made a conscious choice to come here close to the nightfall; tomorrow, they would walk early to see a sky hopefully clearer, brighter, like a future.

‘Shall we, kiddo?’, he asked. Harry turned to him; his face was pale in the last moments of the grainy dusk.

‘You don’t want to wait for the stars?’, Harry asked. That’s what they’d planned; coming here at dusk so they could wait until sunset and stargaze. The weather was supposed to change soon and Sirius knew that with enough warming charms they could manage. Harry could even sleep if he wanted and Sirius would watch over him. But still, now with the night coming dark ink, Sirius thought that there was no reason to wait.

‘Why should we wait, Harry?’, Sirius asked gently. ‘I’m a star, you know’, he joked, thinking about his own name, and then his thoughts returned to Harry. ‘And you’re going to be one soon enough’.

‘Are you sure, Sirius?’, Harry asked. Sirius thought it was heart-breaking he needed to reassure his godson still; but he knew they needed more time, and now they had it.

‘Sure’, Sirius confirmed. His voice was light. His intent was not. He hugged Harry with one arm, placing the other hand on his own heart. ‘Ready, kiddo?’

Harry didn’t say anything, but took a deep breath and nodded. Squeezing his arm – and oh, good, Harry was not cold – Sirius focused on his feelings: his wish to protect Harry in Lily and James’ stead, his love for the little toddler he had known a long time ago and for the brave teenager he knew now; his pride of everything Harry was and everything he was going to be; the sense of companionship and trust he shared with his godson just now. Sirius drew this all out of his magic, forming a ball of light; this one was not a silly thing he would entertain himself with. This one was important.

Next to him, he could see Harry doing the same. Sirius felt pride at the thought of his godson mastering this aspect of wandless magic at such a young age – and he added this feeling to the ball of light too, for good measure. For Harry, he would make the sacrifice as strong as possible.

And so he took his wand out and made a cut on his palm, mixing the magical light with his blood. He had been thinking of using a knife, but additional magic wouldn’t hurt, and he wanted Harry to have as much protection as possible. Beside him, Harry reached his hand palm up, and Sirius gently muttered the same spell. Harry winced and Sirius couldn’t help but apologise, but then his godson shrugged and pressed their lights of magic together. Intently, they pushed the light up into the air and watched it float higher and higher, into the dark sky.

‘Rigel’, Sirius said. It sounded right. ‘Harry James Rigel Potter. Welcome to the family’.

Harry grinned and gave Sirius a hug. Sirius didn’t think it was the sea breeze on his own face so he must have been crying. He sacrificed that, too, as a thank you.

Together, they sat there, in the cool air, waiting for the stars.

 

***

 

Miles away, but closer than you’d think, a tired Albus Dumbledore frowned in his office as a surge of magic caressed his hand. He looked up from the letter he was reading (a curious letter, he mused, one that needed a careful reply), and noticed one of his delicate silver instruments pulsing slightly with light.

He stood up swiftly, summoning a leather-bound book from one of his numerous shelves. It felt warm against his fingertips, like a mug of tea. It was as he had expected. The register of Hogwarts’ students has updated.

He waved his wand and the pages moved with an old whisper of the parchment until they opened near on the name he had thought he’d see here soon, written anew. Smiling, Dumbledore nodded to himself. Young Harry had gained not only a new name, but a parent-in-magic as well. That was not a gift to be taken lightly.

Closing the book with one last glance, he sent it to its place on the shelf and returned to his seat. Dumbledore paused for a second, picking up his quill and taking one long look at the letter again. Suddenly coming to a decision, he put the quill back and reached for a Muggle pen instead. With a discreet smile, he began to write.

_Dear Mrs Granger,_

_I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for the most thoughtful and welcome gift. Being an advocate of changes myself, I appreciate your gesture and I am sure that the students of Hogwarts, too, will learn the value of the merging of the two worlds. The bullet pens you have so kindly sent will help familiarise them with just one of the joys of the world which has a different kind of magic than that which they know..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, it's done! I can't believe this story grew so long and became so important to me in the process, and I hope I managed to do this little idea the justice it deserves. Thank you for all the wonderful comments, kudos and lovely words. Without you, it wouldn't have been the same! Hope you enjoyed this as much as I did. Let me know in the comments what you think!
> 
> Also, I'm on [tumblr](https://keyboardandkaja.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to chat!


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